Pa'Nar Problems: losing control
by Gaiden
Summary: First contact- Betazed! Vulcan emotional control vs. Betazed emotions with a little piracy on the high seas
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: 

I don't own it, I make no money of off it, and I really, really, don't want to be sued. The characters and the rest belong to Paramount and to Gene (God rest his happy little soul), I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Chapter One

Sub-Commander T'Pol, science officer and second in command of the human starship Enterprise, was currently enjoying the generous hospitality of the First Daughter of the Fifth House of Betazed, keepers of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx. The palace was opulent, the company, startlingly beautiful and very intelligent. In other words, it was a typical day on Betazed.  

 Apparently the government of the telepathic race was very eager to entertain a Vulcan.  They'd found her 'emotionless' state a very curious development in psychology. Apparently not many Vulcans had been entertained on the planet since the first contact between the two telepathic species. Unsurprising, considering the Vulcan attitude toward emotion.

T'Pol had been graced with nothing but the best, socially, materially, and telepathically, as far as that went. Betazeds had a reputation of being as exuberant with their emotions as Vulcans were reticent. Thus far the persons she'd had contact with had gone out of their way to keep their minds to themselves. It was remarkably flattering. 

Somewhere else in the compound, Ensign Sato was being 'escorted' by one of the First Daughter's daughters. It had taken little convincing to get Hoshi to 'take a look' at the enormous gardens that shaded the courtyard of the villa-like home. They looked gorgeous, even to T'Pol's sensibilities.    

"So T'Pol, tell me more about …Surak." The First Daughter leaned forwards and poured herself another cup of the fragrant tea. 

She shook T'Pol out of her slight reverie, she'd not felt a sense of calm and peace from a being since she left her mother's house as a child, many years ago. Although chronologically the First –Daughter was probably younger than the Sub-Commander, T'Pol felt the same sense of age and wisdom from the other woman as she did from her own mother. 

"Pertaining to his philosophy or his life, First Daughter?" T'Pol asked absently, more absorbed in the nuances of keeping her mental shields in place, carefully, restricting how much, if any emotional impressions the very talented First Daughter could possibly pick up from her. It was a wonderfully precise exercise.  

"Both, I imagine," the First Daughter leaned back in her chair and sipped the tea, eyes half shuttered, "and please, call me Mirana" 

"As you wish," T'Pol acquiesced, "but I am curious, did your people not have any conflict regarding the emergence of the telepathic culture? Surak emerged from Vulcan history during a time when conflict was considered the norm."

   "As far as our recorded history goes, our people have always been telepathic. It was considered a gift of the gods."  Mirana picked up a plate of berries and offered them to T'Pol, who gracefully declined. 

"Fascinating" T'Pol changed her mind and gently speared one of the berries with a fork and tasted it. The explosion of flavour was almost sensual.  

"I take it that this was not the case for Vulcans?" Mirana asked, conscious albeit distantly, of the Vulcan's sudden pleasure at the berry. 

"Not precisely." T'Pol allowed herself the small indulgence, fruit, especially juicy, fleshy fruits like berries, were one of her few weaknesses. The fruit on Vulcan was dry and crisp, the sudden explosion of juice from a Terran, or apparently Betazed berry, was an exotic, sugary, alien pleasure.   

The First Daughter was about to speak again when a beeping noise interrupted them, T'Pol reached into her pocket and pulled out the communicator. 

"Archer to T'Pol"

"T'Pol here, Captain" 

"How are things going on down there?" he asked. 

After the initial first contact T'Pol had respectfully requested that the amount of human interaction with the Betazeds be kept to a minimum until she determined how susceptible they would be to the empathic impulses of the population. Hence she requested Hoshi to accompany her. 

If anyone could be emotionally swayed by a mental suggestion it would be the young woman. Not to mention that the communications officer would be more cognizant of the body language and sub-vocal communications of the telepathic species than any other human aboard Enterprise.  

For T'Pol it had been much like a relief to finally be surrounded by individuals who didn't feel the need to forcefully project their emotions like a shotgun blast to the psyche. It was very calming to her Vulcan sense of order and quiet. 

"Everything is going well Captain, I will be returning to Enterprise shortly with Ensign Sato." 

"Glad to hear it, I'm looking forwards to your report." Archer replied, with barely concealed enthusiasm. She almost sighed at his blatant enthusiasm for reckless exploration. Humans.  

"T'Pol out", she clicked off the communicator and drained the last of her tea. "I must return to Enterprise" 

"Yes, of course," the First Daughter smiled, "and please, make sure your Captain knows that the crew is welcome to indulge in some fresh air and recreation. We know how tedious the routine must be on starship." 

"I will relay the message."

"We look forwards to more interaction with your people." The First Daughter stood to escort T'Pol to the shuttle pod. "We don't get many Vulcans out this way."

"I am not surprised," T'Pol observed, "Our species attitudes towards emotion differ greatly. I imagine many Vulcans would find it…disturbing."

"You don't." Mirana observed.

"I am a scientist and an explorer." T'Pol replied easily, "After more than a year aboard a starship with eighty two tumultuous minds, I find the atmosphere here on your planet to be…relaxing." 

"I imagine it's difficult, being the only telepath on board"

"It has been…challenging." 

The Sub-Commander and the Ensign reached the shuttle pod simultaneously. Hoshi was conversing animatedly in Betazed with her escort. T'Pol arched an eyebrow. The message of their departure had been telepathically relayed without physical contact. Fascinating. 

Hoshi and T'Pol climbed into the shuttle and started the pre-flight warm up. Hoshi was chattering about the intricacies of the Betazed language and T'Pol listed with half an ear. 

"Hoshi" T'Pol interjected, amid exclamations of wonder at the planet and its people, "There was a reason I requested you for this mission." 

"Hmmm?"

"These are a telepathic species, with ethics and morals very different than that of my people, I wish to know: did anyone try to telepathically contact you while you were on the surface?" 

"No," Hoshi observed, "not that I was aware. Although they did mention that they were empathic. Luzwana said that they had a code, similar to the Vulcan one, they don't try telepathic contact unless they've been invited to." 

"This was also consistent with my observations." T'Pol turned in her chair, "If I may, Hoshi, would you allow me to examine you telepathically, to ensure that no contact was made surreptitiously?" 

"That's right!" Hoshi exclaimed, "I forgot, Vulcans are telepathic as well." 

"We are," T'Pol acknowledged, "Although it is seldom displayed for outworlders."

"I've…never been 'probed' telepathically" Hoshi said uncertainly, clearly uneasy at the thought, "are you sure there's no problem? I'm not a telepath." 

"You have been, Ensign," T'Pol said evenly, "If you'll recall the incident aboard the Klingon scout ship."

"_That was telepathic contact!" Hoshi exclaimed, surprised, "I just felt… calm"_

"That was my intention" T'Pol replied with one of her inexplicably Vulcan non-expressions, "It seemed beneficial at the time." 

"Alright then, I guess I'll just consider this another 'language lesson'" Hoshi smiled, "After all telepathy is just another language…right?" 

T'Pol could see the other woman trying to convince herself to allow the contact. "You don't have to do it Hoshi; I don't believe that the inhabitants of the planet would have initiated contact. This is just a precaution"

"That's ok," she said, voice a little higher, but seemingly more secure, "I know that Vucans are very…circumspect." T'Pol simply arched an eyebrow in acknowledgment; Hoshi sighed and shook her head, "Ok, what you want me to do?"

"Give me your hand" Hoshi extended her hand, palm up, just like she had on the Klingon ship.

_Can you hear me, Ensign? _

Hoshi gasped and her eyes went very wide. "Holy…" she gulped, "Yeah, I hear you" 

_There appears to have been no contact, _T'Pol's mindvoice told her dryly, "_It will be my recommendation that the crew be allowed shore leave, being that there is no telepathic dangers, do you concur? _

"Yeah," Hoshi replied, "Wow, this is…very cool."

T'Pol's eyebrow marched back up towards her hairline. "I'm sure it is Ensign." 

She removed her hand, and Hoshi felt the very subtle sort of 'presence' that she mentally associated with T'Pol's mindvoice withdrawing. 

"Just how telepathic are Vulcans anyhow? We know that you can talk subliminally and stuff, but…" Hoshi asked, "Can you…read my mind?"

"Even if I could, Ensign, I would not. Most humans are far too chaotic to 'read' in any sense." T'Pol steered the pod towards the docking bay. "We cannot initiate any kind of telepathy without physical contact."

"That's why you don't shake hands" Hoshi said with a smile, as if suddenly understanding, "It's not that you're unsociable, you don't want to read anyone incidentally."

"A fact most humans seem to forget." T'Pol said dryly.

"People don't realize that you're not being rude you just have different body language than the rest of us" Hoshi acknowledged, "I've noticed" 

The pod shook a little as the docking arm clasped the top of the shuttle. The pod bay doors opened and T'Pol and Hoshi were greeted by the Captain and Commander Tucker. 

The Captain, being the gentleman he was, reached out this hand to assist the two women out of the pod. Hoshi accepted it, T'Pol did not. Commander Tucker frowned as T'Pol refused the Captain's hand and Hoshi sighed mentally, another example of cross-species misunderstanding. 

"So they watin' to suck our minds outta our bodies? Or you think we can make it down there safely?" Trip asked, ribbing at the Vulcan's insistence for caution.

"The planet seems safe, Captain," T'Pol ignored Trip, instead concentrating on her waiting superior. "The First Daughter has extended her invitation to shore leave for the crew, I suggest we accept cautiously."  

"Sounds good ta' me," Trip drawled, smiling broadly, "We haven't had a chance to stretch our legs in a while. Might be fun."

"And perhaps this time, you will arrive at the shuttle pod with your clothing." T'Pol needled, reminding everyone of Trip and Malcom's little, gaffe on Risa, leading to the loss of their garments. 

"They have an extensive database on the surrounding star systems, Captain, I suggest we take advantage of it, there's a lot of information available." Hoshi interjected quickly, smothering Trip's retort. 

"Sounds great, Hoshi," Captain Archer took advantage of her comment to steer the conversation away from the last shore leave. No one really wanted to dwell too much on that incident. 

"Perhaps we should adjourn to the situation room for a more thorough briefing." T'Pol suggested. 

"Great idea, T'Pol," Captain Archer motioned for her to proceed him into the airlock.     


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: 

I don't own it, I make no money of off it, and I really, really, don't want to be sued. The characters and the rest belong to Paramount and to Gene (God rest his happy little soul), I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Chapter Two

"Sounds like you've got a bit of a problem there, First Daughter," Travis Mayweather looked over the star charts that the Betazed had brought as a gift for the Enterprise crew. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so," the older woman smiled, with the warmest chocolate brown eyes, that now seemed almost familiar to the crew, "We've had many encounters with these Orion's they're not pleasant people." 

"They're pirates" Travis responded, frowning deeply, "as bad as the Naussicans." 

"Indeed," Mirana replied, with a concerned expression of her own, "but we've noticed that they usually stick to these routes here and here" she motioned to the screen. "If you steer clear of these systems they'll usually leave you alone. Not always." 

"Thanks, our course was running right through that system." Mayweather pulled up the graphic representation of their projected course on the console of the situation room. Trip had brought her to the bridge as part of the getting-to-know-you tour and she'd immediately kicked if off with Enterprise's helmsman.  

"It's the least we can do, as far as we know, no one who has been captured by the Orion's is ever heard from again. I wouldn't wish that on anyone." Mirana smiled at the young pilot.

The rest of the crew, those who hadn't gotten the opportunity for leave on Risa, were down on the surface, enjoying the hospitality of Beatazed, including Sub-Commander T'Pol, something that surprised some of the crew. Travis had been in the shuttlebay as the sub-Commander walked in.

No one had ever seen her out of uniform. Ever. But she walked into the shuttlebay as though she owned it, wearing soft, calf length boots, loose black pants, tucked into the boot tops, and an orange, slightly golden tunic. Her robe was jet black, with gold overstitching. 

The decibel level cut by half the moment she walked in. Even the Captain, who was going down as well but more for diplomatic purposes, looked at T'Pol differently, and he was the one man on the ship who was the most used to her.  

 The Commander came over to where the First Daughter and Travis were discussing the new star charts. He'd been chatting it up with Hoshi's temporary replacement at the communications station.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"These are great commander," Travis enthused, "We were going to be in some serious trouble without them." 

"What about the Vulcan starcharts?" Trip asked, almost pleased to prove them inaccurate "Is it not there?" 

"No" Mirana interjected, shaking her head slightly; "The Orions don't bother Vulcan ships. Though they enslave others well enough." 

"Slaves?" asked Trip with real alarm. 

"Yes," the First-Daughter acknowledged, sadly, "They are slavers." 

"Why don't they attack Vulcans?" asked Travis curiously. "Seems they'd be as good as any in the slave trade" 

"Vulcans don't make good slaves" the First-Daughter said dryly, "They also have some very bad blood between the two cultures. I'm not quite sure what happened, but the Orions won't go near a Vulcan ship anymore. Vulcans are not violent, usually, but there's no quicker way to push the Vulcan Government into acting than to abduct one of their people." 

"Yeah tell us about it," Trip joked, making Travis smile. "Our Sub-Commander is bad enough to make Klingons think twice." 

"I don't doubt it, she's very strong woman," the First-Daughter smiled "I've never heard of a Vulcan voluntarily separating herself from the company of her fellows, for even a short time, let alone the years you plan to be away." 

"Hell, the Sub-Commander can't stand them as much as we do sometimes," Trip said puzzled, "Now that don't sound very Vulcan does it?" 

"She's a dedicated scientist," Mirana acknowledged, "And as open-minded as any Vulcan I've ever met." 

"Well for a Vulcan I suppose…" Travis trailed away, "I guess I never have met a Vulcan like her before, though I can't say I ever met many."

"Anyway," Trip pulled the conversation back to topic, "About these Orions…how aggressive are these people?"   

"If they think they can take your ship? Very." Miriana said sadly, as if remembering something tragic, "For a ship like Enterprise I don't think you'd have too many problems unless more than two or three warships got a hold of you." 

"Sounds pretty good," Travis said happily. 

"Just in case, do you think you could have some specifications sent up for the Orion warships, I think Lt. Reed would like all the information you could get." 

"Consider it done," Mirana smiled, "Now Commander, if you would be so kind as to show me the rest of your lovely vessel…" 

"Sure thing ma'am" he grinned his Tucker grin, "You wish is my command" 

Down on the planet surface, things were proceeding just as smoothly, Captain Archer was very pleased with Betazed, the people were friendly, they were unstinting with hospitality, and they even got along well with the Vulcans.  

Almost too well, he could tell that they thought Sub-Commander T'Pol was something of an oddity. They kept suddenly frowning in the middle of a conversation to look at her sharply. She sat, as always, by his side.

"So is there any kind of precedent like Surak among the human culture Captain Archer?" They'd been discussing the philosophy of Surak, and he'd been immediately grateful to T'Pol for giving him a translated copy of his teachings. 

"I guess the closest to Surak would be the human Ghandi, who advocated civil and political rights though non-violent protest, but we really never had a cultural revolution like Vulcan did, until …well until Vulcan came to us nearly a century ago." 

"Yes, there is something to that moment when you realize you're not alone in the universe" the First Minister smiled fondly, "nothing quite like it." 

"No doubt" T'Pol had been surprisingly active in the conversation; usually she let him take the bulk of the 'small talk'. She'd also come to the meeting much more informally dressed than usual. He'd never seen that particular outfit of hers before, although it wasn't entirely surprising, she wore her uniform constantly. The only time he'd ever seen her out of it was that first time he met her and threatened to throw her on her ass.  

"More berries Sub-Commander? I thought I understood from the First-Daughter that you enjoy them?" the Minister leaned over and offered her the bowl. She accepted it, but frowned slightly, bringing her brows together in a gesture of thought.  

"I'm sorry Sub-commander, no offence was meant," the minister apologised suddenly. He sat up sharply, as if scalded. Jon realized that they'd been conversing without words. 

He knew, intellectually, about telepathy. It had been a human fancy for aeons. But to be confronted with the actual reality was slightly disturbing. Not so much from T'Pol, he dealt with the consequences of her telepathy a long time ago. It was more the unknown factor of the Betazed populace that concerned him. 

T'Pol responded to the Minister without turning a hair, "I am incapable of taking offence Minister, do not concern yourself." 

"Yes, well…" he trailed off slightly, looking somewhat upset. He stood up, gesturing to the sliding glass doors that made up the entire left wall of the meeting room.  "I don't suppose either of you have had a turn in the gardens? They are quite lush for this time of year." 

"Ensign Sato said they were remarkable, I confess I have not had the opportunity to peruse them myself" T'Pol stood up easily, wrapping her robe closer about her lean frame. "Perhaps I shall." 

"I'll join you," Archer offered, then was surprised at her sudden stiffness. It wasn't obvious to the average eye, but he'd been living and working with T'Pol for some time now. 

 He was no expert at Vulcan body language, but he'd made an effort since he realized that it would help him understand her better. 'Admit it Jon,' he chastised himself, 'you just like looking at her' He quashed that thought ruthlessly, no telling what these people could pick up on. 

"I was not anticipating company," she said, still slightly averse to his presence, "but you may join me if you wish." 

"I think I will" he got up and automatically opened the door for her into the gardens. 

They walked. The Minister was right; the garden was lush and ripe. It smelt like heaven and teased the senses with bright colour and texture. He waited for her to talk, knowing that if she brought up the subject it would be a lot less awkward.  

"You have questions, Captain." It was a statement. She still had her robe wrapped tightly around her body, the gold on black very stark in the lush greenness.

"Well first of all, have we irrevocably offended yet another head of state?" asked Archer somewhat deprecatingly.  It seemed to be an unfortunate trend in human diplomacy.

"Quite the contrary, I believe he thinks he's irrevocably offended us." She sounded vaguely amused. Well, as much as a Vulcan could sound amused. 

"The berries," Jon prodded. That at least was when the conversation went sour.            

"Yes," T'Pol stopped to take in the view of an ornamental pond, stocked with what humans would call tropical fish. "The First-Daughter noticed that I particularly enjoyed the berries. She passed this observation on to the Minister. If I were as…strict as many Vulcans tend to be I would have left the place immediately and not returned."

"Why?" asked John, puzzled. 

"Because I never said anything about the berries" she raised a brow introspectively, "She was monitoring my empathic projections to a degree that she could pick it up, which," she acknowledged distractedly, "is no small feat." 

"That's not good, right?" he tried to understand the situation.

"It's considered highly impolite," T'Pol looked away, frowning at some unseen distance "At least by most standards"

"Not theirs apparently" Jon paused, "That's another thing… you're a telepath right?"

"Indeed," T'Pol said somewhat exasperated, "I am Vulcan"

"How…" he stopped, flustered, "I don't know, I can understand you being telepathic I think, a little better then these Betazeds. I know this is probably paranoid, but what exactly can they do, I mean, telepathically?" 

"Could you be more specific?" she asked, even though she had a pretty good idea of what he was asking. 

"The ethics of it" he prompted.

"I don't know" T'Pol responded simply, "they are not my people; I do not know what they consider intrusive or what is accepted as the norm. You can understand why I wanted to limit contact?"   

"I think so" he kept walking, "I just don't understand it. Vulcans are so, well, they're so closed about it. These Betazeds don't have the same; I guess standards that you do."

"With all due respect Captain," T'Pol said dryly, "You're not a telepathic species; I would not expect you to understand it fully. It is a difference of philosophy. I don't believe they're any more malicious than a Vulcan would be, which is to say, not at all, but you are correct: they are far more open in the practice."

"I don't feel comfortable with it" he said finally, "If she could pick that up off of you, she could read me like a book." 

"It is not so much an issue of if it can be done, Captain," T'Pol paused and turned to look at him directly, "I do not wish to offend, but as far as emotions go, it is harder to block out human emotions, than to try and read them. You are very open, mentally" 

"You can read us like a book" he sighed. 

"Not I" T'Pol said evenly, "Nor any other Vulcan"

"Because of your ethics," Jon for once was acknowledging the use of Vulcan privacy codes.  

"No" T'Pol disagreed, "Although they are significant. Vulcans are almost exclusively touch telepaths. We cannot initiate telepathic contact without some kind of skin to skin contact. As far as I know, Betazeds suffer no such impediment." 

"Is there anything I can do?" Jon asked, somewhat alarmed. 

"About what?" T'Pol inquired.

"This, mental openness," he clarified, "Can I block them out?" 

"If you were raised as a Vulcan, with a century or so to devote to the study of Kholinar, perhaps," T'Pol responded archly, "You are not a telepath, there is little that can be done."

"What about…"

"No" she cut him off before, he could finish his sentence, "Even if there was something I could do, I would not consider it"  

"Why?" he asked. It wasn't like T'Pol to say something like that. 

"Pa'Nar" she murmured, "I do not know if it can be transmitted cross-species, but I would not take that risk. A simple mind touch is one thing, what you are asking is an entirely different matter." 

"I'm sorry," he was instantly contrite, "I didn't even think. I'd almost forgotten" 

"I assure you, I have not" she kept walking, though blindly, caught up in a wash of emotions connected to the disease. Fear. Anger. Despair. 

"How…" he started, "How are you doing?" 

"As well as can be expected" she said softly, so softly he had to strain to hear, "The Doctor has arrested the physical deterioration, for the time being, it is simply a matter of control" 

He stopped to look at her, but she would not meet his face. In the bright moonlight she seemed like such a slender, delicate being to shoulder such a burden. The shadow cast an angular, almost sharp look to her face. It could have been a play of shadows, but she seemed very sad. 

"If there's anything…" he began to say.

"I will not hesitate." She tucked her hands more securely in the depths of her robe and inhaled deeply. Then walked forwards, crunching the gravel slightly.  


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter 3

Dr. Phlox was near beside himself with joy about his stop on Betazed. There were several new samples of medication on Betazed that he'd never encountered before and his colleagues on the surface were more than willing to share the information with the Denobulan doctor. Not to mention the facilities were excellent.

The main medical complex was located in a costal city right on the shore of one of Betazed's most beautiful coastlines. He cheerily jaunted off the shuttlepod with a wave to Crewman Jeffries.

"Ah, Dr. Phlox I presume?" a young Betazed man greeted him warmly; "I'm Dr. Michal of the neurological institute. It's a pleasure." 

"Indeed" accepted the other man's embrace stiffly but in good spirit, "May I congratulate you Doctor on this facility, it's quite remarkable."

"It's not my facility, but I thank you" he walked Phlox into the main building, "This has been a centre of medical innovation on Betazed for millennia. In the old days it was believed all maladies were based in the mind, and that if surrounded by beauty and luxury illness would simply vanish" he chuckled as he spoke, "We know better now, but I still feel that happy thoughts fuel a happy immune system, do you not agree?" 

"Very much so, Doctor," Phlox enthused, "I was most delighted to hear of new research into neural and psychic disease"  

"It's a lonely field, I'm afraid, there are few telepathic species in this part of the galaxy," he turned down a wide, well appointed hall, "The maladies I fear are somewhat unique to our brain type." 

"There are several telepathic species in this part of the galaxy," Phlox countered, "And many more species, including my own, who have similar cerebral configurations." 

"You're absolutely correct," Michal agreed, "And I have been fortunate enough to encounter an excellent pair of physicians in the neurological field, might I introduce them to you while you are here Phlox?" 

"It would be my honour" the good Denobulan smiled, but with ulterior motive. Ever since Sub-Commander T'Pol had been diagnosed with Pa'Nar syndrome every spare moment of his medical time had been devoted to finding a cure, assisted in no small part by the lady herself. 

Her education was invaluable. The Vulcan Science Academy was the single most prestigious school of science in the known galaxy. T'Pol had not two, but three advanced degrees from the august institution, chemistry, exo-biology, and physics. 

Not that his own qualifications were in any way lacking, but she was, after all a Vulcan and had firsthand experience with the disease. They'd progressed with it considerably, using the information given to them, as well as other sources from Phlox's wide medical acquaintance. They succeeded more rapidly in understanding of the syndrome than the Vulcan doctors had previously ever done. 

A cure however, was still far in the distance. 

"I am curious indeed to see how you have progressed in treatment of deteriorating neural pathways. There are several illnesses on Denobula that are symptomatic of neural degradation." Phlox listened to the other man's description of his treatment methods carefully, discarding those treatments that he'd already used on the Sub-Commander, and analyzing carefully for feasible options. The main loss of mental control caused by Pa'Nar syndrome was due to neural pathways deteriorated by the stress of the mind meld.

They settled in a well appointed lab, flanked by two overflowing atriums of lush green vegetation. Diving immediately into a series of highly complex tests, Phlox didn't notice the intrusion until they spoke. 

"Well," it was a man's deep, rich voice "I see you've found your doctor, Mischal."

"Indeed," the Betazed, grinned, "May I introduce to you, Dr. Phlox, Gul Tancret, of the Cardassian Medical Authority" 

"My colleague, and good friend I might add, Kira Seline, from the planet of Bajor, a close neighbor of Cardassia Prime." The man was similar to Phlox, with pronounced eye, forehead, and neck ridges, the woman, very fair, with a deeply ridged nose. 

"My pleasure" Phlox greeted them eagerly and immediately all three fell to discussion. Soon Phlox found himself moving from the 'Denobulan illnesses' to 'induced neural trauma' to 'my Vulcan colleague'. 

"Plox to T'Pol" He could not have interrupted a meeting with any more welcome than he did now. Both T'Pol and Captain Archer were sick to death of sitting in front of row after row of Betazed Ministers of thus-and-such. 

"Go ahead, Doctor" T'Pol answered the call with alacrity. 

"I have some acquaintances here from the Betazed neurological institutes that are very anxious to meet you" he sounded positively buoyant. T'Pol's brow furrowed together, not understanding why he'd called her about the topic but eager to get out of her diplomatic obligations.

"Really?" her voice sounded vaguely distant, but intrigued. 

"Indeed, they are anxious to hear about your progress in the analyzing of the symptoms of neural pathway decay." Phlox's response piqued her curiosity. He'd never asked her to join one of his frequent 'research' trips among other doctors. They'd decided tacitly to keep her involvement to a minimum.

"As you wish Doctor" she rose, and returned her tea to the Minister of culture. Perhaps she would not have left quite as eagerly if she hadn't been quite so bored with the requisite diplomatic rounds that needed to be made during a new first contact. 

"We look forwards to seeing you…Doctor" and Phlox cut out.

Archer's brows shot to the ceiling in surprise, but managed to hold his tongue. "Well minister, it seems as though the only gentlemanly thing to do is escort the lady to her task. I hear the coast is lovely this time of year. I don't suppose you could provide us with transport."  

"Why of course, my dear Captain, I will take you to the southern continent myself. Indeed it is the finest of all coastlines in the parsec, though I say it myself…" as the young, very eager to please man rattled on about the aesthetic pleasures of the medical facility. 

Archer leaned in to T'Pol and asked "Doctor?" 

"Technically" T'Pol murmured. "I do hold several doctorates from the Vulcan science academy. Not necessarily medical degrees, but it is, I believe, entirely acceptable to refer to me as 'doctor'."  

"I am I to assume that Pa'Nar syndrome is characterized by neural pathway degradation?" he asked, amused. 

"Indeed," she acknowledged. 

"And I don't suppose you're an expert on the symptoms of the disease?" he asked, smiling at her neat circumvention of the truth. 

"I am quite familiar with the characteristics" she said, with a ghost of a smile. 

"Couldn't have picked a better time," Jon grinned, "If have to hear one more description of the 'indescribably beautiful' I might induce some neural pathway degradation of my own."  

For once the Minister of Culture was not exaggerating. The coastline of the southern continent of Betazed was positively gorgeous. More beautiful, in Jon's opinion, then the resort on Risa where he'd spent a…interesting two days and two nights.

They landed on the Medical Centre shuttle pad, and were met joyously by Dr. Phlox and several other doctors of varying species. 

"Captain!!" he shouted over the whine of anti-gravity servos, "What a pleasure! And Sub-Commander!! Might I introduce Gul Tancret of the Cardassian Medical Authority, his collegue from Bajor, Kira Seline, and the head of the neurological institute Dr. Mischal of Betazed." 

"Live long and prosper" she greeted, as she allowed Jon to assist her from the pod, "You have need of me Doctor?" 

"Yes!" he shouted, though there was no need to out voice the servos, "I don't know of any other Vulcan who understands the symptoms of neurological degradation better than you"  

She paused; almost imperceptibly while gathering her robes to exit the craft. If Jon hadn't given her his hand to help her step down he would never have noticed the slight tremor as T'Pol heard the remark. 

"You are mistaken Doctor," T'Pol countered evenly, "It has been a very long time since I studied neurological systems. I am, by no means, an expert." 

"But you are the closest Vulcan on hand who…"

"Can we continue this conversation inside?" Jon shouted as another pod began to whine as it descended onto the platform. He deliberately cut off whatever the Doctor was saying about her being 'the closest Vulcan on hand'. He was sure that Phlox would never deliberately betray a medical confidence, but in his enthusiasm Jon was afraid for T'Pol's secrets.   

After they'd adjourned to a quieter, more tranquil location, it seemed that Phlox's enthusiasm had been tempered somewhat by the 'meaningful' glances by T'Pol in his direction. 

"So tell me, T'Pol," the Cardassian asked curiously, "how does a Doctor end up a Sub-Commander on a foreign starship?" 

Jon sensed the question was less an introduction and more a confrontation, "She's my science officer and second in command, representing the Vulcan Science Directorate."     

Apparently that was the right thing to say because Kira and Mishal both immediately gave her a look of deep respect. 

"As I was saying," T'Pol remarked casually, but her face was deadpan, a sure sign that she was feeling stress, "It has been some time since I have been at the Science Academy, however I will assist your investigation in any way possible."  

Immediately, the Doctors launched into a diatribe on this characteristic of that neural pathway. Jon, feeling quite lost, pitched his voice somewhat louder and said "Sub-Commander, we still have an engagement with the Minister of Culture later on…when do you think you'll be ready?" 

"An hour" she responded, her features relaxing gratefully, then at Phlox's skeptical look she amended, "Perhaps two" 

"I'll call back then." He caught her look of almost desperate appreciation. "Two hours, Sub-Commander"

Jon left the building checking his watch carefully. According to his guide, there were several 'absolutely fabulous' shopping districts in the nearby city, as well as some lovely restaurants. He decided to spend the next couple of hour's just walking, window shopping, and just plain getting the kinks out. 

"Hey Cap'n" he'd recognize that voice anywhere, "Thought you was up north in th' capital" Trip hailed his friend from one of the largest open air markets. He was dressed in a loudly checked beach bum Hawaiian shirt and cutoff shorts with sandals. Some things never change.       

"Trip, Hoshi" Jon greeted them, laden with bags. Apparently they'd been doing their part to support the local economy. "Looks like you're having fun" 

"This is a great place, Jon," Hoshi enthused, "I've picked up a dozen things that my family will just love!" 

Trip pretended to sag under the weight of the bags they'd accumulated, eliciting a laugh from everyone, even a few passers by. The market was teeming with people from all over Betazed, and even a few off-worlders determined to get a good price.

"T'Pol and Doctor Phlox are over at the neurological centre, setting records for speed talking no doubt," Jon joked emptily, he knew darn well why they were there, "we have a lunch date in a few, so I was just  taking in the sights"

"Sounds great," Hoshi enthused; Trip seemed a little more miffed at Jon's description of a lunch 'date'. "There's this little…café I guess, over by the waterfront. Great place, we stopped there for a late brunch. Lots of really fresh seafood…."

"Yeah but miss ice an' iron don't eat meat, might as well go to a bistro and save yourself the trouble." Trip said almost harshly. 

"…and a great selection of tropical fruits." Hoshi finished, sounding annoyed. "I'm sure Dr. Phlox and T'Pol will both find it acceptable." 

"Sounds just perfect," Jon smiled, "C'mon Hosh, Trip, show me what you got" it was, apparently, the right thing to say, because Hoshi's eyes immediately lit up and she pulled everything out of the bags immediately to show him. They talked as they walked, negotiating crowds and vendors. 

He found himself unable to resist a small painting he knew his Mom would love. Then there was the Tiraxline silk that just made a perfect scarf for his cousin Jackie. Then what really tested his resolve was a gorgeous, perfect, wonderfully subtle pendant on a silver chain that made him immediately think of T'Pol. 

It was a deep ruby, what they called a 'firestone', table cut to quarter inch thickness and almost perfectly translucent, mounted so that the wearer could look through the flat surface. The jeweler said that the most common work he did on those stones was for travelers, he would, for a price, etch an image of someone's home world, favorite landmark, or loved one's portrait onto the flawless surface. 

The price was not marked. 

Reluctantly Jon left the store, not wanting to call attention to his desire to buy the jewel. He swiftly located the restaurant Hoshi picked out and almost had to run to meet his two hour deadline with T'Pol. 

It was a good thing too, for when he arrived at the Institute there was no one there. He asked the secretary, who pointed him in the direction of a lab, or set of labs, rather, that belonged to the director. 

As he approached the glass he could see the rear of Dr. Phlox as he bent over a microscope, or at least it looked like a microscope, with the other in close attendance. T'Pol had shed her outer robe and tunic, and was standing slightly apart. 

From behind the glass he couldn't see very well, but it looked like she was tense. Her jaw was set, her feet planted firmly apart, and arms crossed not behind her, but across the front, just under her breast. He tapped on the glass. 

"Sorry to interrupt," Jon said genially, "But I'm afraid the Sub-Commander's two hours are up. We have a lunch reservation"

"But Captain we've barely broken the ice" the large Cardassian protested, the others tittered a little with amusement; "Surely you can spare the good Doctor for a little longer." 

"I have other obligations," T'Pol murmured tightly, deliberately not raising her voice so that the strain she was feeling didn't show, "Perhaps later this afternoon. Doctors…"

Jon noticed that she'd whisked right into her robe and tunic within seconds and was practically pushing him out the door, even as she volunteered to return, as they almost ran towards the exit, he got a good look at his science officer. 

She looked like hell.                       


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

It wasn't often one saw a Vulcan out of sorts. Indeed, it was almost an oxymoron. Nevertheless, to Jonathan Archer's eyes T'Pol was positively beside herself. He could see now, the vein in her temple, twitching in rhythm to her heartbeat. He was sure that if she'd spoken, strain would surely have been evident. Her jaw clenched, the muscle rippling a tattoo on her cheek. 

"I hope the Minister was not overly distressed at my absence during your 'tour'?" T'Pol asked blandly, her voice was tightly controlled and her face a picture of concentration. 

"The hell with the minister," Jon said brusquely, "Are you ok?" 

"I am well" she responded, avoiding his eyes.

"Bull" he took her by the elbow in a gentle, but firm, escort and began to make his way to the small, secluded waterfront café. First, however they had to negotiate the crowds of the market. He steered her as far away from the main square as possible, they walked swiftly, ignoring hawkers and other market goers. 

"Sir, Madam Vulcan, we are honoured" the matre'd bowed very low as they entered the cosy building. "A table for two?"

"Yeah" Jon acknowledged, "somewhere quiet, if you can" 

"Of course," he bowed again, "This way please" 

They followed him to a balcony, with a commanding view of the harbour and almost completely isolated from the casual café traffic. The waiter came and offered him the drink card. He barely glanced at it.

"Juice?" 

"We have many different fruit and vegetable…"

"Tlak berry," Jon asked, having discovered the name of her favourite fruit while browsing in the farmer's markets fresh produce. 

"Frozen or on the rocks?" 

"Rocks, two of them please, and a plate of fresh fruit" 

"Yes, sir, at once" 

Jon studied T'Pol carefully after the waiter left. She'd fixed her eyes somewhere over the harbour and was breathing deeply and rhythmically. She turned her head to meet his eyes and sighed, audibly.

"Thank you" 

"Anytime" he leaned back in his chair, relieved that for the moment at least she had regained her equilibrium, "You want to talk about it?" 

"Not particularly" 

"Ok" he loosened the zipper of his jumpsuit, warm from their quick trot through the market at high noon. The waiter returned swiftly with their drinks and the plate of fruit. T'Pol took hers and slowly but steadily drained the glass in one long swallow. Jon took hers, the ice rattling slightly and replaced it with his own, full, glass. 

"I don't suppose you carry inaprovoline Captain?" she said softly, her hand trembling slightly as she lifted his glass for a small sip. 

"Sorry" 

"It is I who should apologize, I believe if you had not come when you did I would have dishonoured myself in a very public fashion" her eyes lost their focus again, turning inwards, "I cannot thank you enough" 

"Your dignity is safe with me" he said lightly, "I won't tell, I promise" 

"I did not anticipate that…" he voice trailed off, and her brow furrowed, "The situation was harder on my control than I could have foreseen. I fear the symptoms are progressing."

"I think that you found yourself in a very stressful situation and handled it very well" he didn't think he could have faced off a crowd of doctors and maintained his façade.  

"I am a daughter of T'Khasi," she exclaimed, violently, angrily, "I have an obligation to myself, to my family, to my very blood to follow the t'an s'at. My behaviour is abhorrent, I disgrace my name."  

In a flurry of robes, she got up from the table and walked over to the balcony rail. Her robes today were familiar, the same robe she wore when he met her in San Francisco. She was breathing heavily, shoulders sagging. 

Suddenly she straightened. A moment later, he heard the slight step of the waiter on the balcony stair. 

"Are you ready to order?" he asked. 

"Yes," T'Pol replied unexpectedly, turning to face the young man with a perfectly bland expression, "I will have the cold dukrit soup, might I suggest the seafood medley Captain, I'm sure you would enjoy it."

"Sounds delightful" Jon agreed blindly, willing to agree to anything at this point, "and some rolls, Hoshi mentioned that they were fantastic" 

"Yes sir, ma'am, we'll bring that out to you straight away" he smiled a slightly wicked, knowing smile, at the Captain, obviously thinking that they wanted him gone quickly because of a romantic assignation. Jon could care less. 

"T'Pol" this time when she looked at him, she was about ready to cry. Her eyes looked suspiciously moist and she'd bit her lip to keep it from trembling. "Hey, c'mere."

He stood and walked over to her. He placed his big hands on her slight shoulders and said calmly, "Breathe. In and out. Slowly. Remember c'thia. Concentrate. Think arie'mnu" 

He inhaled and exhaled with her, silently thanking his lucky stars that the past afternoon had given him a working knowledge of Vulcan philosophy. C'thia was their all-consuming concept of logic, Arie'mnu the long process of emotion mastery. He wasn't quite sure what t'an s'at meant, but he got the jist of what she intended, she was ashamed of her weakness.     

It took a long while. She stood in front of him and breathed. Then unexpectedly, her hands came up. She placed hers over his and pulled them off her shoulders gently. 

"I have no right to ask this of you…" she began. 

"Ask"

"May I borrow your strength for a moment? I cannot maintain my shielding unaided any longer and…I do not desire the entire planet to know of this distress." from the look on her face it wasn't like she was talking about leaning on him physically. She meant to lean on his strength telepathically. 

"Sure" he agreed before he thought to deeply about it. He trusted her. He had to.  

She placed her hand palm to palm with his and breathed deeply. He suddenly felt the slight prickling sensation that he felt when he thought someone was watching him. Then gradually it increased until it felt like someone was steadily pouring sand down his back. It increased again until he felt itchy all over, as if he'd run into the ocean and then rolled in the sand, letting it cling to his skin.

Slowly the feeling faded. Like someone was taking a cup of water and tossing it on him randomly until there was no more sand. She breathed more deeply and opened her eyes to look at him. 

_Nemaiyo_

She did not open her mouth be he felt the words reverberate in his head as though he was covering his ears and humming. 

"You're welcome" he responded verbally. She let go of his hand. 

They sat at the table again. T'Pol silently attacked the plate of fruit, giving her hands something to do but twist in the folds of her robe. Shortly, they heard the quick step of the waiter on the stair. 

"Sir, Madam" he served the bowls of soup, T'Pol's looked very much like the Terran tomato soup, sprinkled with melted cheese, and Jon's resembled a thick rich, bouillabaisse. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Jon realized suddenly that she was probably mortified tremendously that he had been the one to witness her lapse. 

"T'Pol?" he queried, at her slight flush of green and downcast eyes he realized he was right, "T'Pol, look at me." When she'd complied, he continued, "I'm not a Vulcan T'Pol.  I'm human. I don't think emotions are shameful. I'm not going to hold it against you that you're having problems controlling this. It's a disease. It's as impartial as logic. If anything I respect you more for the way you're handling it."

"It is not the Vulcan way to be this…open in front of outlanders." She looked at him with a brooding expression, "But I am a long way from Vulcan…and to be perfectly honest, I am something of a pariah."

"Because you've chosen Enterprise," Jon said with a bit of guilt, "I'm sorry." 

"It was my choice to make" she defended, getting some of her old spirit back, "But it is…difficult to be disdained by my family and colleagues."

"You aren't distained," he said forcefully, "You have eighty three colleagues and family members who'd stand up for you in front of the High Command and Starfleet both. We might just be human, but once you got our loyalty, it's stubborn. I know you've given up a lot to stay here with me…and Enterprise;" he added hastily, "allow us a chance to give back. It's called friendship. I'd like to think we are." 

"Friends?" she asked. 

"Yeah, friends," he put his spoon down, trying to make her understand, "I know that you're Vulcan and I know that our definition of friendship isn't exactly the Vulcan way, but…T'Pol, at the risk of sounding like a pig, you're _our Sub-Commander." _

She frowned, he could tell she wasn't quite getting the message he was trying desperately to convey, "Just…try us, ok? I know that control is everything to you. I'm not asking you to compromise your principles, just…I don't know." He sounded, frustrated, "You can lean on us T'Pol. Trust us. Open up a bit. Help us help you." 

"I will…I will consider it," she sounded serious, "Thank you Captain."

"Jon" he smiled, toasting her with his spoon.  He stirred his swiftly cooling soup, "So…what are we up to this afternoon?" 

Hoping that she wouldn't notice his casual inclusion of her into his plan for the evening, he grinned and mimicked her usual arched eyebrow. She raised both of hers in evident surprise. 

"I am to return to the Institute after lunch, I assume that we will be quite busy for the duration." She returned to her lunch as well, spearing a slice of a fleshy tropical fruit and chewing thoughtfully, "We've made admirable progress." 

"You're going back?" he asked, somewhat shocked. After what had happened this morning, he did not think she would want to spend another hour near the place.  

"I am" she replied, squaring her shoulders defiantly, "I will not allow emotion interfere with my obligations. Moreover," she almost sounded playful, "I have friends to lean on, do I not?"  

He laughed incredulously, "Yeah, you do" shaking his head in amazement, "And you got more courage than any dozen grown men I could name. I sure as hell wouldn't go back in there." 

"I am not the only one who is suffering from this," T'Pol reminded him, "If there is anything that I can do to find a cure I will do it. I have that obligation." 

"So let me pick you up for dinner," he offered, "it won't be the Captain's mess, but I'm sure I could find something suitable."

"Are you flirting with me?" she asked. 

He was completely stunned, but in a moment's retrospect, he realized that emotionless she might endeavour to be, but she was not lacking feeling. Caught unexpectedly he answered with the blunt truth. 

"Yes" 

She opened her mouth to answer then suddenly shut it with a snap. She held up her hand to quell his immediate reaction. Her eyes shuttered and for a moment, it looked like she'd dropped into silent meditation. 

"What is it?" he asked, heedless of her desire for quiet. 

"kae'at knal'lur" she murmured, "Eavesdropping" 

She got up, and slowly followed what he assumed was some kind of mental ion trail. Down the stairs. Across the floor of the café. She paused at the waiter's station, but then continued out onto the decking, underneath the balcony they'd been eating on. Right over to the corner table, with two elderly looking Betazeds and the presumptuous waiter that had served them the soup.  

She tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, shocked. She raised a brow, and then said in clear, ringing tone, "It takes a more subtle psyche then yours to slink into a Vulcan consciousness."

The flurry of activity after that statement would have been amusing if it hadn't been quite so serious. The poor manager seemed overcome with humiliation. Apologies were so profuse they'd been offered everything down to the kitchen sink as an appeal for forgiveness. 

All T'Pol asked for was the privilege of returning later that night for dinner. They'd acquiesced so easily it was almost painful. Outwardly, nonplussed T'Pol didn't make a fuss of the incident, and begged off a formal report to the authorities en route for a return to the Institute. 

"How much do you think he heard?" asked Jon worriedly, while he walked T'Pol back to the medical building.

"Nothing inappropriate, I assure you," she accepted his escort willingly this time, instead of him almost dragging her across the market square. "As I said, it would take a much more subtle mind than his to escape my notice. He was just curious, not very clever, but curious."  

Jon frowned, "I don't like the idea of eavesdropping like that. If you hadn't been there I would have never known anything was wrong." 

"One of the normal hazards of dealing with a telepathic society," T'Pol observed, as they approached the Neurological laboratory, "You will pick me up for dinner?"

"Of course," he smiled, "Seven alright?" 

"Perfectly" she left his side and squared her shoulders at the building. Without looking back, she walked purposefully up the stairs and out of sight. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"I'm positively horrified that you were the victim of this" the Eldest of the First House of Betazed waved a feather fan in front of her face in a very distracted manner. "Really, I'm surprised you're taking this so casually." 

"Slip-ups are completely understandable in the early stages of interspecies contact." Jon was for the first time in the position of having to accept an apology instead of making one. "Really, the Sub-Commander wasn't at all upset over the issue. She just said he was curious. It's perfectly understandable." 

Privately Jon didn't like the idea of psychic eavesdropping at all. There was nothing his human, non-telepathic, crew could do to dissuade one of these Betazed's if they got it in their head to do something. Nevertheless, the entire government was walking on eggshells around him, acting as if he was going to fly off the handle at the drop of a hat. 

On the other hand, maybe it wasn't him they were worried about. He'd noticed that they were giving T'Pol a wider and wider berth as time progressed. Whether that was a reflection of the Betazed feelings towards the Vulcans or their worrying about the Vulcan tendency to get selectively offended he didn't know but it was beginning to become damn annoying.  

He also got the distinct impression they were treating him like a Vulcan captain, or Commander rather, wide diplomatic circles and a marked deference for his opinion. It was vaguely upsetting, but at the same time flattering. He could completely understand where Vulcans came from in their interspecies relations. 

If everywhere they went they were deferred to and respected, he could really understand how it would be difficult not to become the slightest bit arrogant over time and, if not arrogant, then to completely not comprehend why someone wouldn't want their guidance. 

He didn't really think that Vulcans set out to be arrogant, domineering know-it-alls. They were the best, the brightest, the most technologically and biologically gifted. Truth told, there was simply no comparison. Vulcans were just Vulcan, the phrase had so much meaning, and it took so much for granted. They were just so damn single minded…

Point in case, Archer sighed mentally, while the Eldest dragged him around the social rounds of the crème de la crème of Betazed society, his stubborn, obstinate, wilful second in command. Every single bloody day they had been on the planet she'd gone if not all day, then at the very least for the morning, to the damn Neurological institute. Moreover, every single solitary day she showed up to lunch an absolute wreck, mentally, emotionally just drained. 

Would she stop going? No. Would she accept that putting additional strain on her mental control would lead to outbursts that are more emotional? No. Would she ease up on herself and accept that shit just happens? No. Of course, she wouldn't do any of that. She was Vulcan. There were standards in her life. It was getting to the point that lunch was as emotionally draining for him as working at the Institute was for her. 

"…don't you agree Captain?" the question penetrated his woolgathering, mechanically he looked at who said it, but for the absolute life of him he couldn't come up with the topic of conversation. 

"Yeah," he agreed, crossing his toes and gambling, "Of course" 

"Indeed, I think it's the finest of all…" the Eldest he was seated with rattled on. He resisted the urge to check his watch. This was not what he wanted to be doing. However, he was not just a military man, he was a diplomat and scholar, or at least he tried to pass as one. Making nice was part of the job description. 

"Excuse me dearest, may I steal back the Captain for a moment?" the First-Daughter returned from wherever she'd disappeared to when the party started. "Just a moment then love, I'm afraid we've a bit of business to deal with." 

She grabbed his dinner jacket firmly, almost the way he'd grabbed T'Pol on their first frantic trip through the open air market. He careened past dignitaries and nobility; barely missed knocking over a vase he was sure was older than Western Civilization. She slid back the partition in the ballroom, where he, the First Minister, and T'Pol had that vaguely disturbing first meeting. 

After they got to the garden, she dragged him a good way out, on the opposite side of the fishpond, before releasing his arm and glancing about furtively. 

"You mind explaining what's going on?" asked Jon.

"At the risk of sounding like some sort of criminal Captain, I just want you to know that your worrying, about whatever it is you're worrying about, is giving me a headache from across the room." She sat in the artfully decorated, carefully placed garden bench. "Now I know you've not had the best experience with telepathy on this planet, but honestly if your mind doesn't stop running in circles I'm not the only one who's going to start picking it up, shielding or no."   

"My worrying?" he repeated in amazement.

"You're the only non-Betazed in the room, I'm sure it's you." She looked at him beseechingly, "Please, I know you're not likely to go confide in a complete stranger like myself, but please if there's anything I can do… just to make it stop" 

He looked at the very dignified woman in front of him rubbing her temples, seemingly in pain. "You mean my worrying is giving you a headache?" 

"Oh yes," she shook her head, "Now mind you I'm a bit more sensitive than the average Betazed. But you're projecting quite forcefully Captain." 

"Projecting?" he repeated dumbly. 

"You don't have the foggiest idea what I'm saying do you?"  She said matter-of-factly, "I'm not trying to pry. Really. But if you don't get a handle on things quickly, I'm not the only one who's going to hear it." 

"Thanks for the advice" Jon replied slowly, "I'll try to …keep it to myself." 

"I'll make your excuses to the gathering" she got up quickly, and then paused to turn and look at him with a silhouetted face "I know it's not my place to say anything, but… It really does concern me that you are not comfortable here. My people do not make a habit of scaring away visitors."

"And my people aren't accustomed to telepathy." Jon replied, "But I'm sure we can get past that" 

"Not accustomed?" she said, sounding perplexed, "You've been allied exclusively with a race of telepaths for over a century. How is it that you're not accustomed to telepathy?"

"They're Vulcan," Jon protested, praying that she'd understand the meaning of the phrase. 

Say what you will about their foreign policy or perceived distain but Vulcans had rules. They had standards. There were limits to the things they would do and things that they would do but go no further, bar nothing. You could sit down to a negotiating table or dinner table and find the exact same thing. Logic. Control. Discipline. There was a certain amount of reassurance in that familiarity, especially knowing their telepathic privacy.    

"But we're not," she said softly, "Please don't judge us by their standards. We are two different cultures, with different traditions and a different way of life. And frankly I don't know anyone but a Vulcan who could ever hope to meet Vulcan standards." 

"I understand" Jon replied, "I'll try, and I'll make sure my crew tries as well…" he trailed off for a second.

"…But you're not telepaths, and it's harder for you to accept. I…" she gave him a friendly smile, "can understand that." 

"Thank you" Jon said, returning the smile, "and good night First-Daughter." 

"Good night" she ghosted out of the garden, returning to the sound and light of the gathering. Jon stood there for a second, trying to come to terms with what he just heard. Then made his way slowly to the guest wing of the great villa, where he, T'Pol, Dr. Phlox, and ostensibly Trip and Hoshi were staying. 

Phlox had almost moved in to the laboratory in the Neurological institute, his room stood empty. Trip and Hoshi had stayed in the southern continent for the week; they'd taken an invitation from the first-daughter's daughter. So essentially, it was just him and T'Pol.  

He walked into the darkened hall, which led into a large, comfortably appointed sitting room. There was a small lamp lit on the corner table. He smiled. T'Pol left him a light. She always did. As soon as conceivably possible, his yanked his tie out and undid the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He shed the coat, tie, and kicked off his shoes; then sat and removed his socks and unbuttoned the stiffly starched shirt. 

Porthos came over and nuzzled his master's hand, looking to be petted. After the disaster with the 'sacred trees' Jon had been somewhat apprehensive of taking him to inhabited systems. Just in case. However, after the first day here, the canine had inexplicably shown up one night when he came back to the rooms. Malcolm, whom he'd left in charge, had answered his summons slightly puzzled. 

"The Sub-Commander ordered to have him sent, sir, seeing as there were no…ah, sacred trees." When he'd tried to thank her, she barely glanced up from her padd and told him bluntly, that there was nothing in the garden that would be irrevocably damaged if it were to be 'watered'. Therefore it was only logical to have 'the creature' brought planetside.      

He got up to head to his room, but then paused and picked up his laundry that had been scattered, imagining her sardonic eyebrow if she woke in the morning and found his clothing lying about. He hung it haphazardly off furniture in the bedroom provided to him, then padded, barefoot, down the hall and knocked on her door. 

It had become something of a habit, for him to knock and check on her before going to his own room. She was usually meditating or reading but he'd come in, say about five words about his day, then sit with her. They didn't talk, not really, but he'd come to find it relaxing. Since she normally wasn't shy about telling people to mind their own business, he figured T'Pol was enjoying it as well, albeit quietly.

"Come in" she said after the first knock. There really was only one person who'd knock on her door at this time of night. He entered, and heard a slight, scritch, scritch, whoosh as she ignited her lighter. In the faint illumination he could see that she was sitting on the bed, knees pulled up to chest, in the pitch black.  

She put the flame to the wick of a taper, half way melted, on the bedside table. The glow washed over the room, giving scant illumination, but allowing him to navigate without knocking into things.  He walked to the foot of her bed. It was large, what a human would refer to as a four-poster. The candlelight was stronger here and gave her face a very innocent, very young look. 

"Good evening" she cocked her head slightly in greeting. As if receiving him in her bed, dressed in her nightclothes, was a regular occurrence.  

"Good evening, T'Pol." He wondered what in the world was running through her mind as she sat, alone, in the dark, not sleeping, for blanket and sheet both still tucked firmly into the mattress. "I'm sorry if I woke you" 

"I wasn't sleeping," she confirmed his thought of her solitude. Porthos jumped right up onto her sheets, something Jon thought he had trained out of him, and settled into a fuzzy ball at T'Pol's feet.

"I'm worried about you." Jon said suddenly, thinking as an afterthought she'd appreciate his being straightforward. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to relay the conversation with the First-Daughter.        

"…she thought I was preoccupied with the telepathy issue. That I was worried about them." He explained, stroking Porthos as a kind of nervous habit, not quite looking her in the face, "But I'm not. I'm worried about you." 

She let her knees drop, crossing her ankles into a lotus position. Her head bowed slightly, and then she looked him directly. He couldn't read anything in her face. Porthos stood up and climbed onto her lap. Jon made a move to get him off the bed, but T'Pol placed a gentle hand on his arm. 

"It doesn't bother me." She said softly, "He's been my company these past few nights." 

"You're not sleeping" it wasn't so much a question as an observation. 

"No" she agreed, "I'm not." 

"Why?" 

She didn't answer him. He tried to read something in her face, but failed. It was a blank stare. He did something that a week ago he would never have even dreamt of doing.  He took her chin, softly and impossibly gently, and tilted it up. 

"You wake up in the night. For any reason. The dog barks, you're thirsty, you have a nightmare…." She flinched ever so slightly and his suspicion was confirmed, "Come to me. I don't care what time it is. I'm right down the hall." 

She didn't respond again, but Jon felt his message had got through. He smiled at her, and picked Porthos up off her lap. She frowned, but he offered her his hand. Puzzled she accepted it and got up off the bed. He reached over and pulled the blanket and sheet from the mattress. 

"Let me tuck you in" 

"Tuck me in?' she turned the phrase into a question.

"Yup" he motioned at her to get in the turned back blankets. She did, albeit still slightly bemused. He leaned over her and tucked the blankets around her, just as he would his niece and nephews. 

He hesitated before leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. She stiffened as he leaned in, so he stopped short and said simply, "Sleep well T'Pol"   

Porthos hopped back up onto the bed, curling into a ball at her feet. As he left the room, Jon took one look back at his Sub-Commander in the oversized bed with his dog, and felt the strongest ever pull to just drag off his undershirt and crawl in beside her. 

She would never consent to something like that. She was Vulcan. He was Human. She was probably old enough to be his mother.  They came from as opposite places as night and day. Nevertheless, for the moment he just saw a woman he cared for deeply. Moreover, for the moment it was enough.   


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six 

Malcolm Reed nervously tugged on his jumpsuit for the sixth time that minute and smoothed his impeccable hair. Once again, his name had come up for the daily breakfast with the Captain.

 Hoping against hope that another deadly and seemingly insurmountable emergency would once again interrupt their meal, he hit the call button on the door to the Captain's mess. 

"Come in" 

He again smoothed the front of his uniform and walked smartly into the room, snapping crisply to attention. He could hear the Captain's exasperated sigh. 

"Malcolm, this is completely informal, please." When that didn't seem to have an appreciable effect on the armoury officer, he ordered, "At ease." 

"Yes sir" as he sat down, he suddenly popped up out of his chair and flushed deeply, "Sub-Commander, I beg your pardon, I did not see you there" 

"That's quite alright," she replied almost absently, holding a steaming mug and reading one of her Vulcan texts, he could tell because the Vulcan padd had a different shape than Starfleet issue. "Good Morning Mr. Reed." 

"Good Morning ma'am" he felt almost relieved at her presence. Surely, the Sub-Commander stood on more ceremony at the table than the Captain did. 

The steward came in, taking Malcolm's order for breakfast. He also refreshed the plate of fruit on the table; they'd taken on a great deal of it fresh from the surface. He nervously glanced at T'Pol but she seemed absorbed in her reading. 

"So…where were we last time?" asked the Captain. 

"Uh…hobbies I believe sir"

"Well…?"

"Ah, no sir, not particularly" Malcolm flushed slightly, feeling somehow inadequate. T'Pol looked up from her padd and tilted her head in his direction. He flushed even more. 

 "Mr. Reed?" she asked. 

"Uh, yes Sub-Commander." He calmed at the arrival of his scrambled eggs and bacon. It gave his something to focus on other than his discomfiture. 

"You are from the country of England?" he started a little at that, surprised at her question. 

"Yes, um, Kempton, a little village in the County of Derbyshire," he answered, sounding confused. 

"The same Derbyshire that this estate of Pemberly is located?" she asked, raising the padd. 

"Your reading Pride and Prejudice?" he asked, visibly surprised. 

"I find British literature very… engaging" she set the padd down on the tabletop.  Then she picked up her fork and speared a slice of what resembled a Nectarine. 

"Really?" he asked, "What authors?" 

"Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, Shakespeare…" she frowned a little, "and the series, what was her name… Rowling?" 

"You've read Harry Potter?" he said incredulous. 

"It's been a children's classic for generations," T'Pol countered, "I've also read Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstien, and Roald Dahl."    

"You a fan of children's literature T'Pol?" asked the Captain, sounding surprised. 

"If find it intriguing, on Vulcan text is merely edited for comprehension level, children's literature on Earth is…very different." She arched a brow, "Yourself Mr. Reed, what do you read?" 

"Tactical treatise mostly," he said, embarrassed, "Nothing spectacular. Speaking of which…" he took the opportunity to pull a padd from his leg pocket, "The First Daughter sent me this about the Orion pirates. It's fairly alarming." 

"If you want tactical information about the Orion pirates check the Vulcan database. We keep a comprehensive record." T'Pol arched her eyebrow, "I was not aware we were near Orion territory" 

"Informal Malcolm" the Captain reminded him. 

"You know my opinions on this matter," he said frankly. "Sir, I don't understand why we have to keep doing this."

"We've been out here a long time, and we're going to stay out here for even longer." The Captain poured himself more sweet tea, "a little…bonding isn't going to hurt anyone."  

"Sir…" 

"Just relax Malcolm," he grinned, "You don't need to say anything, just be good company" 

"Yes sir" Malcolm set the padd down on the table next to his orange juice. He was more than a little concerned about the Orion pirates. Their ships weren't quite as well armed as Enterprise, but they had speed and stealth on her. They also attacked in packs of three and four ships apiece, creating a real danger for the crew. 

"T'Pol…" Malcolm asked, making a supreme effort to try to socialize. 

"Mmmmm?" she murmured. 

"The First Daughter mentioned that there was bad blood between Vulcan and these pirates, frankly given your people I find that difficult to understand. What exactly happened?" 

T'Pol's face changed, her eyes shadowed and she set down both her mug of tea and her book. She took a deep breath. "It was a long time ago." 

"Tell us the story," the Captain prompted, also setting down his tea, with a smile, "And maybe this one will be as good as the Carbon Creek saga." 

Malcolm did not quite understand the reference, but she raised an almost laughing eyebrow. "You did ask me to tell you a story then." 

"Yes, that I did" he grinned, "But somehow I think this one will be a little more ingenuous"

"It is solid verifiable historical fact" she leaned back into her chair and crossed her legs, "The Vulcan calendar is somewhat different from the human, but approximately a hundred years B.C., by your calendar, an individual named Surak was born. Within eighty years, His philosophy was becoming more and more dominant among the Ancient noble Houses and warlords." 

"Warlords?" Malcolm asked, alarmed.

"Vulcan was not always a peaceful place to live," she explained delicately. "Our first, First Contact, was with a fleet of Orion warships that enslaved the planet and captured the diplomats we sent to them, including S'Task, Surak's closest follower."  

"Oh my" Malcolm said shocked. 

"Indeed" she folded her hands in her lap, "Our spacecraft consisted of corporate mining barges, and supply craft. We were defenceless. Nevertheless, the planet, for the first time, threw aside their differences, and allied. We could not face them in a head on battle, but used our telepathy to force the Orion captains to drive their ships into the suns or to crash them into each other. It was our only defence."   

"You did what?" asked the Captain, equally shocked, "I thought…."

"The limitations exist now against those kinds of actions, but we were fighting for the survival of our species," she took another deep breath "S'Task escaped. He stole some of the Orion technology. It was just enough to give us the edge against the invaders. Between the terror and the slaughter, they retreated. To this day no Vulcan ship has ever been attacked by an Orion pirate again" 

"My god," Malcolm exclaimed, "And to think that was two thousand years before our first warp flight. I can't imagine what would have happened if we'd met the Andorians or these pirates instead of the Vulcans."    

"I'm sure humanity would have acted commendably" T'Pol reassured him.

"Not that well" Archer said, sliding back in his chair. "That's why the Vulcan database never mentioned that this system was dangerous, isn't it?" 

"To a Vulcan ship it would not be," she confirmed, "The database was not created with non-Vulcans in mind. Must admit it quite escaped my notice as well" 

"They are a serious threat" Malcolm finally brought his padd into the discussion, "Their ships are not large but they're well armed and they travel in packs. If we got caught off guard by one of these groups it could be seriously devastating."  

"Do you have a plan, Mr. Reed?" she asked him, taking up her tea again. 

"Well… actually" he set the padd back down on the tabletop, "There are two ships leaving Betazed at about the same time. One is a Betazed cargo ship and the other a Car-dass-i-an ship, if that's how you say it" 

"Cardassian," T'Pol pronounced it clearly, "I am acquainted with the Gul. His name is Tancret. They're with the interspecies medical exchange"

"Yes, indeed, if we travel together through this expanse of dangerous area we'd be better off, I believe. It would add a lot of time to our course because we'd need to hold to warp one point three, the maximum cruising capability of the cargo ship." He sat up more enthusiastically, "It would be a lot of time, but I feel it would be well worth it" 

"I'll have a talk with Gul Tancret and the Betazed Cargo Authority, but I'm sure they'll accept the idea," the Captain stood, finishing off the last of his tea, "And once again Malcolm you've managed to weasel out of socializing." 

"I'm sorry sir" he apologised.

"No you're not" Archer grinned. "But it was a good idea Malcolm."   

The Captain did indeed contact the two ships involved. It took very little persuasion to convince them of the additional safety of travelling in a group. It delayed Enterprise's departure long enough that Jon made one last trip into the city market. 

The small silver bell tinkled as he opened the door to the shop. A wizened old man sat at the counter, helping a young couple choose a very fine looking necklace of platinum and a prismatic sort of sea crystal. 

Jon just waited, absently looking at the display cases. The merchant did do lovely work. He etched in crystal, precious stones, and several jewellery quality metals. Jon had an exact plan for what he wanted.

"Ahhh, lovely" the old man finished with the couple, who locked together in a very loving embrace, the husband placing the necklace around his wife's neck. "You were looking at the firestone pendants the other day weren't you? Is it for a lady friend or are you feeling homesick Captain?" 

"Far a friend who happens to be a lady," Jon responded, "And I have a request actually, something different…"

"You are the customer" the old man's eyes crinkled, "And I do love a challenge now and again." 

Jon pulled a hunk of pure, raw copper out of his pocket. I'd be willing to trade you this" he gestured with the ore, "For a necklace with a gold chain and a firestone pendant, engraved" 

He found out, ironically from T'Pol of all people, that copper was a rare and valued commodity on Betazed. On Earth, gold was most valued, copper much less so. On Betazed it was the exact opposite. 

The hunk of copper was actually a gift from his cousin Jackie, the amateur geologist; she'd given it to him a long time ago as a 'paperweight' to put on his desk. He'd packed it along with his other desk things when he came aboard, but had little use for it. Until now. 

"Impressive" the man took out a jewellers glass 'eye' and examined the ore. "This would more than cover the price Captain; I couldn't in good conscience take it as a straight trade"

"I've got no use for it really" Jon shrugged, "I just came here for the pendant" 

"Well can you tell me more about your 'friend who happens to be a lady'?" the old man grinned, "Or would you rather have a little something for yourself?" 

"She's Vulcan…" Jon began.

"That lady?" the man sounded incredulous, "You're a man blessed indeed"   

"It's just a friendly gesture. She's a valued colleague." Jon tired to downplay his purchase. 

"Might I suggest?" the old man moved down a section of glass counters and slid out a display box. "This would sit well on a Vulcan skin" 

It was a set of two rings, polished copper, etched with a stunningly intricate geometric design. Then the metal was oxidized deliberately, turning the etchings a deep, rich green. The old man was right; the green and coppery bronze colour would shine on her skin. 

"Well…" Jon was seriously tempted. "They're lovely. I'd only need one though." 

"I am afraid they are a set," the old man said apologetically, "I would have no use for one with out the other. Perhaps another friend of yours would have need of a gift at a later date?" 

"Maybe" Jon agreed, not thinking of giving it to anyone. Two matching bands, according to human custom at least, would be a gift between lovers. 

"Well you think about it while I engrave the lady's pendant" the old man set the display box on the counter. "I trust you have an image?"

"Yeah," Jon fished a holo-image out of his pocket. "It's Mount Seleya, one of Vulcan's most famous landmarks." 

The old man went into the back with Jon's ore. He heard the whirring of the engraving machine as it copied the holo-image onto the flat surface of the ruby. Jon looked at the set of rings. The ring would look well on T'Pol. However, the implications of buying a mate for it was… something he didn't want to think too closely about. 

"Ahhh, here it is, sir, and a very lovely engraving though I say it myself." The old man returned from the back with the pendant in a gift box. He flipped the top open and Jon's breath caught. It was perfect. 

Internally the old man smiled. He'd known immediately when the outlander mentioned this woman that she was not 'just' a friend. He didn't tell the young man that the ring set he was boxing up was a traditional Betazed courting gift. 

He deliberately picked out the 'odd' ring in the Captain's size. He'd been a jeweller long enough to size a person by the look of their hands. Soon, he thought, this nervous young captain would have cause to wear the courting gift proudly. Very soon if what he saw in the young man's mind was any indication. 

The old man loved the craft of jewellery almost as much as he loved making the right choice for a young couple's first gifts. It was the reason he kept his shop open when he could have long ago closed up to live a quiet peaceful life in the country. 

As Captain Archer left the shop with a spring in his step, the old man chuckled softly to himself. Another successful match, he swept absently until another young man came in the shop. A brief mind-brush told the jeweller exactly what he needed to know. 

"Ahh, hello there lad, something I can do for you? A sculpture perhaps? Or a gift for your lady friend?" at the young man's sudden flush he smiled, again happy to have hit the nail on the head. "Might I suggest….."        


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

            Trip Tucker was bored out of his mind. Travelling at Warp 1.3 was, in his opinion, the worst sacrilege that could be committed on Henry Archer's warp five engines. This ship was prepared to cruise the galaxy. Not putt along behind a cargo freighter out of fear of some pirates. 

Time seemed to progress in an excruciating, leisurely fashion. He could now understand how Travis ended up with such a 'cut' physique. There was virtually nothing to do but work out until you dropped and then work out some more. 

He signed off on the last set of routine maintenance reports with a dilatory sigh, then shrugged out of his uniform and headed to the gym. It was a bit late; he'd been working the six to midnight in hopes of 'spicing' up the routine, but to no avail.

When he beeped open the door from the men's locker room he stopped short with a very impolite stare. In the dead centre of the gym, on the hard, steel decking, was Sub-Commander T'Pol out proving exactly why she'd been picked for active operations duty with the Vulcan Ministry of Security. 

As he stood there slack-jawed and gawping, she pirouetted, cut, and slashed the air into ribbons. Her hands were moving so fast as she practiced her forms, they hissed as she almost flew into technique after technique.    

"Holy hell sweetheart, remind me to never piss you off" Trip drawled as son as he got his voice from whence it had fled.  Seemingly unsurprised at his comment, T'Pol finished her workout with a breathtaking set of kicks, stretching her legs to a point that made him wince.

"I have never had cause to raise a hand in anger Mr. Tucker; I don't intend to start now." All that movement, all that energy, and she hadn't even broken a sweat. Her tank top and loose workout pants were as fresh as daises. Damn Vulcan.  

"I sure hope so, Sub-Commander, 'cause no one I know could stop you if you put a mind to it." He set his towel, water bottle, and weightlifting chart down on the first of the multi-position machines. It distressed him more than he was willing to admit, when he realized the very petite woman was probably his physical superior.   

"Violence is a puerile reaction to any situation. It can only be justified as an extreme last resort in a circumstance gone out of control" she joined him, at the next machine over, wiping it down before sitting on the padded bench. The comment rankled him, if violence was so 'puerile' why was she practicing it? 

"So you just practice snappin necks for yer health, right?" he began to angrily pump more weight than he should on his right bicep. To his sheer and utter disbelief and amazement, she set her own weight even higher and began to curl with no apparent effort.

"Yes, actually, it's an exceptionally disciplined art. It takes a great deal of physical and mental focus to accomplish true mastery." As he grunted though a sloppy set of ten, she breezed through a much faster, more technical set of fifty. 

Waiting for her to throw in the jibe about his 'needing discipline' or something along those lines, he switched to the other arm and threw out another weak set of curls.  

"So yer sayin' I'm not disciplined is that it?" he needled, finally unable to handle the surprisingly congenial silence. 

"I don't recall you ever coming up in the conversation," T'Pol said, but not in her usual tone of slightly condescending hauteur, but sounding faintly confused and more than a little thoughtful.    

Not quite believing what he saw, Trip completed his set and went for a shoulder press. Again putting on more weight than he should, he was further dismayed by the five-foot nothing tiny little Vulcan who not only pressed more weight, she nearly doubled it. 

"Well that's what you meant wasn't it?" he goaded further, his mouth running away as his mind screamed at him to let it be. God bless. Why did he do this? Every single solitary time he saw her he provoked her with no reason at all. It galled him almost as much as he was sure it annoyed her. 

"Not at all" her face got a kind of funny look on it, one he couldn't readily identify, and she looked away from him, almost as if he'd hurt her feelings, if she ever had feelings to hurt. 

They worked in an almost companionable silence. For every set of weights he lifted, curled, or pressed she not only doubled the weight, but also did more reps with less effort. Pushing himself beyond his limits had no effect; she continued to lift with the same, precise action. 

"Jesus Christ T'Pol, that's near three times your body weight, I don't care what you are, that is too much for you to handle." He exclaimed as she laid down flat to bench press. He'd moved up behind to spot her, before he realized he was hopeless as a safety, there was no way he could conceivably 'catch' the bar if she lost control.  

"I am Vulcan; my physical strength far exceeds that of a human of my size and weight. I have also been in active training at my peak of ability for…a very long time." She placed her hands carefully on the bar, and, to his astonishment, lifted the weight as though there was nothing there. 

"Can all of you bench press small aircraft?" he was only half in jest. She finished her first set and slid the weights off so that he could take her place. 

"I am very… strong for someone of my species. Although there are not many who choose a path of serious weight training, it is something I have worked on for many years." She frowned slightly as she glanced over his lifting book. The weight he'd set now was in excess of the maximum he'd ever pressed. 

"So in other words yes, right?" he deliberately pulled off his shirt, wanting to get some kind of reaction out of her. From his vantage, looking up he could see that her nostrils were flaring but she held her tongue.

"Yes" She agreed, trying for once to not conflict with Trip. It just seemed to aggravate him more, a curious reaction. He grunted, sweated, and strained but he did manage to lift and press the bar.            

The second press was not a lucky. Halfway up his arms, already abused, gave way. Reacting swiftly, she easily caught and lifted the bar back to the rest. The failure reddened his already florid complexion. 

"Son of a bitch" he swore, getting up off the bench and massaging his chest muscles. "Damn, bastard…." 

"Swearing will not help you lift what are not able to handle" T'Pol removed the excess weight, setting the flat discs down in the rack. "You deliberately put more weight on than you could safely hoist. Why?"  

"What the hell business is it of yours?" he shouted, furious at her, himself, just angry. The anger needed an outlet. T'Pol was convenient.  

"I do not wish for you to injure yourself." 

"Of course you don't, little miss perfect, you'd never 'wish' for me to injure myself. You can't wish for anything. You're a Vulcan. You just sit in your 'inferior' science station, hangin' out with us stinky humans, and prove just how faultless Vulcans can be. You never get tired, you never get bored, you don't get excited, you just sit there and compute like a good little machine." As he said each word, he moved closer and closer in until he was standing practically on top of her, sweaty, and shouting. 

"I am far from perfect. I do have aspirations for myself. I am neither infallible nor do I believe Enterprise is in any way substandard. However," she lifted her face from his chest level to look him squarely in the eye, "you do smell."

Her reaction was more along the lines of what he expected, but she just wasn't going to give in to his anger. She called him on it. 

"Well you could have fooled me. Tell me, T'Pol since when did you realise you're not all that?" Irked at her, he sprayed water all over his chest, deliberately splashing her with the sweaty, salty fluid.

"Since I came aboard this ship I have come to realise many things, first and foremost of which is my own lack of understanding. Yours is a rich and complex society. My people have always dealt with you from a position of strength, not equality, and I find that they have underestimated your ability." She paused to wipe her face with her towel.    
  


"I am not here to lord over you with superiority, but to learn from you. You are not angry with me Mr. Tucker, you are angry at my people for not comprehending your strength" she bent over, picked up his weight book, and handed it to him, "When you have calmed down, we can discuss this further. Right now you are not fit for civilized conversation" 

He opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again but nothing came out. For once in his life, he was speechless. What she said was not what he was expecting to hear. His brain finally kicked in and he left for the locker, wondering what had just happened. 

T'Pol watched him go with a mixture of trepidation and apprehension. She walked over to the treadmill and set it for a light, steady pace. Running was something of a meditation, her mind tended to wander while she moved. 

The speech she'd just made to Trip hadn't been planned. Her mouth simply opened and the words just flowed out. It alarmed her to some extent, her lack of control, but still she was not dissatisfied with what she said. It was the truth, the bald and unvarnished truth, perhaps, but the truth nonetheless.

She only hoped the Commander had been sensible enough to realise it. 

This socializing as equals was a difficult thing to accomplish. She understood Mr. Reed far better now; he found the process as difficult as she did. Though she did notice, some humans were better at it than others were. Jon, for example, was adept at interacting with the crew while maintaining his rank, as was Commander Tucker, with one notable exception. Namely herself. 

Her thoughts of Jon, no longer 'the Captain' in her mind, spurred her to a greater pace as she ran. He was, in a very slow and respectful manner, seeking her favour. Not yet courting her or perhaps he was and just being circumspect enough to make her at ease about it. The realization of that wasn't as disturbing as it should have been. 

A sudden cough caught the edge of T'Pol's sensitive hearing. She turned to face the sound and her eyes widened as she encountered Ensign Sato in the machine not two feet on her left. The Ensign had clearly been there for some time, her face shined with sweat.  

"Hoshi" she said, unable to contain a note of surprise. 

"Hi" the young woman responded, "Couldn't sleep, thought I'd wear myself out a bit before trying again." 

"I could not sleep either." T'Pol admitted. Insomnia had snuck up on the Vulcan.  She did not want to have another nightmare when she did sleep so she worked herself physically until her body shut down from exhaustion. She ended up too tired to dream.

"You looked busy," remarked Hoshi nonchalantly, "I'm sorry if I disturbed you" 

"Quite the contrary, I was wholly unaware of your presence," Another lapse in her discipline. Any respectable Vulcan would be castigating himself severely. T'Pol shrugged mentally; she wasn't a respectable Vulcan anymore and given her situation a certain lack of attention wasn't the end of the world. 

"Anything I can help you with?" Hoshi asked, mindful of a difference in T'Pol. She was a linguist, an expert in communication. Right now T'Pol was communicating her preoccupation with something by a basic inattention to her surroundings that was uncharacteristic of the usually meticulous woman. 

It was on the tip of T'Pol's tongue to say, "No thank you Ensign", but Jon's admonishment to 'help us help you' and her knowledge of Hoshi made her pause. "Actually…." 

"Yes?"

"Mr. Tucker was just in here…" She briefly and concisely related the substance of their conversation. "I confess I am quite unable to fathom his behaviour" 

"You said that about us?" she asked, incredulous. 

"Yes" 

"And you meant it?" 

"It was not premeditated, however I would not have said what I did if I did not believe it." 

"Wow" Hoshi slid to a stop on her treadmill. "You know every time I think I have you figured out…" she chuckled, "Well I'm glad, very glad, that…well that you like us. Humanity I mean." 

"Would I still be on this ship if I did not appreciate humanity?" T'Pol asked wryly. 

"Probably not, but it's still remarkable to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak."  Hoshi motioned her over to the weight benches that she and Commander Tucker had shared not long ago. 

"Does the rest of the crew share Mr. Tucker's opinion of my…superiority?" T'Pol asked, now concerned. 

"Well…" Hoshi sat down, "Yes and no. I think everybody recognises that you are the single most intelligent person on the ship. Now whether or not someone sees this as a good thing or as an insult is kinda, subjective."  

"You didn't answer the question," T'Pol pointed out. 

"No" Hoshi answered. "They don't. But then again Trip probably has always had the hardest time accepting you."  

"Why? Beyond the inescapable burden of my species." 

"You want the God's honest truth?" she asked. 

"Yes" 

"He's jealous" 

"Of…?" 

"You. Your intellectual prowess. Your physical ability. Your…closeness with Jon." 

"And this causes him to behave like a…t'vareth"  T'Pol did not know the word in English for 'undisciplined runt' and she clearly didn't want to address the issue of Jonathan Archer. 

Hoshi laughed. "Yeah… a t'vareth. You gotta understand, he comes from a long family of Florida shore men, they're great folks but not the most intellectual or refined people in the world. Everything about you, your manners, your education, your reserve it just reminds him of what he's not." 

"Why would he want to be something he's not?" 

"Jon"

Hoshi could see again in T'Pol's face that he wasn't a topic of conversation she wanted to explore. Hoshi got up off the bench and smiled, "C'mon, why don't we get cleaned up, get comfortable, and have some tea." 

T'Pol's brow arched, but she gamely got up and left the gym. Hoshi went to the locker room. As she showered, she wondered how to move towards the topic. The Vulcan wasn't exactly easy to sound out with something like this. 

She changed and made her way swiftly to the mess hall. T'Pol wasn't there. Briefly, she entertained the thought that the older woman wasn't going to show but decided to hang around for a while. 

Sure enough, the door slid back just as Hoshi got two mugs of tea from the protein re-sequencer. Her hair was wet and spiky and she wore pale green loose trousers and a deep green over robe with simple sandals. 

"I wasn't sure you'd be here." Hoshi said. 

T'Pol sat and accepted the proffered tea. Sipped, then remarked, "This is caffinated, you won't sleep tonight if you drink it."  

"That's alright, there's only a few more hours until I would have had to get up anyhow." She crossed her legs, and arched her brow at the Vulcan "You don't want to talk about Jon" 

"What does my relationship with the Captain have to do with Mr. Tucker?" 

"Everything" T'Pol frowned. Hoshi tried to explain. "You know until you came along Jon and Trip were inseparable. Even afterwards, before you and Jon worked out your differences. He felt ok. Lately, well lately, I think when you went off on that secret mission and Jon went with you. He didn't tell Trip what it was all about."

"I asked him not to" 

"And he didn't." Hoshi sighed, "But Trip felt alienated. He's threatened by you." 

"He has no reason to be" T'Pol interjected. 

"Really?" Hoshi asked. 

The insinuation was clear and the meaning even clearer, as her relationship with the Captain deepened, Mr. Tucker would grow more and more volatile. Again, it disturbed T'Pol to assume her relationship with Jon was going to deepen. However, it was an assumption she made easily. 

"I could yet live a full two centuries among your people, and I believe I may well understand them less than I do now." T'Pol sat back and just shook her head. 

"Quite probably, we don't even understand ourselves sometimes." Hoshi smiled, "For us, I suppose, it's the journey that counts." 

"Indeed" 

T'Pol reflected silently on her inadvertent experiment. On Jon's advice, she had deliberately chosen to be open and non-confrontational with Mr. Tucker. He had reacted with suspicion, anger, and borderline violence. She had done the same with Hoshi, of her own volition, and the woman had been discreet, supportive, and helpful. It seemed as though Jon's suggestion was a sort of double-edged blade.

"Thank you Hoshi" T'Pol finally responded, after a long silence "I will consider your advice" 

"Anytime" 

They sat in a surprisingly companionable silence for a long time, until Hoshi at last finished her tea and got up. "Good night, T'Pol" 

"Good morning Ensign" 

She laughed, "Yeah that too"                


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Jon slept restlessly. He tossed, turned, and fought his way through sleep. It was compelling, really, the way his unconscious mind reflected his daily struggles as the first, and most important in all likelihood, Captain of a warp five vessel. 

T'Pol petted his canine absently. The mammal approached her when she walked in the Captain's stateroom. She fed it a piece of cheese to keep it from waking the sleeping man and it had settled to sleep on the cushion next to her on the sofa. 

It had become a disturbing routine. 

Sleep was elusive. It was something of a torture now, to sit alone at night and feel her neural pathways degrading around her. It wasn't painful, but she could tangibly detect even the slightest, permanent, loss of control. It was the worst at night when she had nothing but the disease to focus on. Sometimes the Vulcan sensitivity to their autonomous systems was not a good thing.  

She could only push her physical body so far. The two weeks that they had followed the cargo ship increased her aerobic capacity by seven percent and gained her six kilos of lean muscle mass. However, even Vulcans had limits to their endurance. 

T'Pol still couldn't sleep. Meditation was failing her. After nearly seven decades of dreamless sleep, she woke up at nights with a deep rush of emotion. The fact that she was dreaming at all was disturbing enough, that the dreams themselves were gut-wrenchingly disturbing was unconscionable.   

She catalogued, evaluated, and analysed every single scientific reading she could get her hands on, from interstellar dust to micro-singularity readings. She'd thrown herself into the research she and Doctor Phlox had gathered during their work at the Institute, but if anything that made her dreams worse.  

The only cure for her restless mind happened incidentally, she had stumbled in on Jon, asleep at his desk. She'd walked right in after a brief knock, They were in and out of each other's quarters so frequently now, that a knock was all the courtesy they needed. 

She'd been somehow transfixed, intending only to fetch a padd, she'd sat there for a full hour, just watching him breathe. Just being in his room, the scent of him wafting in the still air of the cabin, was relaxing. 

T'Pol closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, making an exercise of picking his scent from the myriad of aromas in the room. There was canine, the most pungent aroma, sitting directly next to her. There were the bathroom scents, soap, and cleanser, with damp, water-laden air. His laundry was in the leftmost corner, with the slightly stale scent of human sweat. The food for the canine was in the front locker. In the middle of the room, suffused under the stronger aromas, was Jon's own peculiar scent. 

She opened her eyes and met Jon's own, concerned stare. 

"How long have you been sitting there?"  He asked, throwing back the blankets and sitting upright.

"What time is it?" She was again, surprised to be off guard, but considering the level of her focus she was not going to rebuke herself. If her only lapse was inattention to her surroundings, she could live with a slip.   

"Oh-three hundred give or take" he sounded more amused than angry, which, she reflected, was a good thing. 

"An hour then… give or take" he didn't ask what she was doing there, but her own sense of propriety prompted her to explain, "I couldn't sleep" 

"I thought so" he got up, and paced over to the windows of his room, as restless now as he had been asleep. "I asked you to wake me if you had problems"  

"You need your sleep" she retorted, averting her eyes from his questioning gaze. 

"So do you. Do you do this often?" her silence then, spoke volumes. "Please let me help you T'Pol. If it's within my power…."

"I know, you are very kind," she hung her head, feeling almost ashamed; this kind of weakness was intolerable in a Vulcan, "I do apologise for invading your privacy." 

"No apology necessary," he stood in front of her, and took her chin gently, tilting her face to meet his eyes. "I told you that you are free to come. If sitting here in the dark gives you any measure of peace, then I'm all for it." 

"It's not..." she began and then trailed off. 

He was closer to her; his hand was on her face, straining not only her physical control, but also her mental control. Her shields began to pulse and waver dangerously; it would be the work of hours of expended strength to reconstruct them. She turned her head, away, but he followed her, sliding it up her neck. She scrambled mentally to regain her equilibrium, the shields held, but they were paper-thin. The slightest jar would bring them tumbling down. 

"If it's not the dark, and you're not looking at me, then it must be something, isn't it?" her head snapped around, eyes wide. "What brings you here T'Pol?"

The fact that she even considered lying to him, for even a brief moment, raised the colour in her cheeks. She was Vulcan. Moreover, she was a scientist; her first and primary duty was to the truth however mortifying it may turn out to be. 

"It's your scent." She said softly, "I find that isolating it from the other ambient smells in the room works as well as inaprovaline to help me settle my thoughts."     

Her response was all the explanation he needed. Her reactions to smell were something he couldn't help but notice, but he'd only now realized to put them together. "I'm not really scent aware, but Porthos, when I have to go without him, always gets anxious and restless if he doesn't have a shirt of mine to sleep with. The scent calms him. That's it isn't it? I know you're aroma sensitive and your nose was flaring like it does when Trip walks by." 

"Yes," she could not deny his acumen. 

"Then here," he reached down to the crumpled pile of that days' uniform and pulled off the bright blue undershirt. "If it'll help. You need sleep as much as I do. When the scent fades, just pick up another one. I have plenty." 

She took it, folding it, and worrying it between her hands. "This is not right. Even among your people, this is an act of intimacy." She met his eyes defiantly over the scrap of blue cloth, "You are courting me"  

Something about her words seemed to strike a chord in him. He met her gaze squarely, "Yes. I am. Maybe I don't know how it's done on Vulcan, but when a man cares for a woman on my planet, he has the right to court her until she gives in or tells him to get the hell out." 

"I will never be human, Jon." She shot back defiantly, "I can't be what you need."

"Don't tell me what I need." He backed her slowly against the wall, not touching her anymore, but trapping her just as irrevocably with his implacable consideration. "Just tell me if my advances are…unwelcome" 

At that moment, the stress caught up to her. In one less than spectacular instant her shield crumbled. If she hadn't been braced against the wall her knees would have given way as well.  Emotion swamped her: fear, anger, anxiety…arousal. 

"How is it done on Vulcan T'Pol?" he asked, meeting her eyes squarely, "Am I missing something?"

"No" her voice was soft, too soft, and breathy. He noticed her discomposure. Backing off a little to give her some space he sat, poised on the edge of the bed. T'Pol looked practically stricken. She sat, almost tentatively on the sofa. 

"On Vulcan, respectable, upright citizens" he noticed these words held a certain amount of bitterness, "bond their children after the Kahs-wan ordeal at the age of seven." 

Ordeal? Jon's eyes widened as she continued her lecture, "The bondmates follow their own path until the Kalifee, the time of mating, arrives. Then the female has a choice. Accept her bondmate's dominance or choose a champion in her defence. To the victor go the spoils." 

"They fight?" asked Jon, trying very hard to picture the Vulcan society he knew, treading an ancient and barbaric path.

"To the death" she acknowledged, "It does not usually get that far, once challenged a male will usually give up his claim rather than risk another's life. However if the male is in the throes of the mating sickness and she chooses a rival rather than a brother or father, then it is known to happen." 

Ice water trickled down his back, was she trying to tell him something?

 "T'Pol, do I have a rival?" he asked not wanting to see the business end of what amounted to a duel. 

"Not anymore" the darkness of the room shrouded her expression, but she sounded smug. "His family was affronted when I asked to postpone our bonding to serve on Enterprise. They issued an ultimatum and I told them to …take a hike." 

He smiled at the colloquialism; she was learning much from Trip's uninhibited lips. "Ultimatum's don't sit well with you I imagine."

"No" he could have sworn she was smiling, "they don't. You do not have a rival for my affection Jonathan, Koss and I were never close, but if we choose this way it will not be an easy path to walk." 

"If it was easy then there wouldn't be a challenge. Something's always worth more when you have to fight for it."   He tried earnestly to meet her eyes, "I swear to you T'Pol I'll honour your heritage. I am beginning to understand what it means to you to be Vulcan. I won't ask you to be anything but what you are." 

"I would expect nothing less." She sounded content with his promise, "Your courtship is not unwelcome Jonathan Archer. I will accept this gift," she raised the t-shirt slightly, "as such." 

"Gift?" his mind raced, that wasn't a proper gift. However, he had one, two really, he got up off the bed and raced to his front closets. "That's not a gift T'Pol, that's a courtesy." 

He handed her the small cardboard box, tied with string, and he mentally berated himself for not wrapping it or dressing it up at all. She neatly untied the string and slipped the lid off the box. Then the universe proved to Jon that regardless of race or species, a woman still reacted well to a gift of jewellery. 

"The workmanship is magnificent," she said, picking the pendent up out of the soft tissue wrapping and twirling the chain around her fingers. She held the pendant at an angle to examine the engraving. 

"It's Mount Seleya." He said happy that she was happy.

"I know," she fastened it around her neck with an amused look; "I have been there. It's an important pilgrimage site."

"Oh yeah, right" he couldn't help a somewhat goofy smile as she tucked the medallion under her chemise.  

"I should be going" T'Pol's unshielded range of sensitivity was minimal, only a few inches beyond her skin, but Jon was the only person on the ship who would go and touch her without warning. That would not be a good thing. 

"Are you sure? Can you get back to sleep?" Sleep was unlikely; she had to re-construct her mental barriers from scratch. It wasn't a difficult procedure, but it was painstaking and time consuming.

"I'm sure this" she lifted the folded shirt, "will help. Thank you Jon" 

"Anytime" he looked as if he really wanted to touch her, his hands flexing at his sides, but he held himself still. It touched her that he would curb his own wants to make her comfortable. 

That night as she worked to centre herself her hands strayed to the heavy medallion hanging from her neck. The shirt she was wearing was at least two sizes too big, it gapped at the neck and laid the engraved ruby open to anyone who could see. 

Her last thoughts before she fell into a deep, albeit short sleep were what her mother would say to her if she could see T'Pol now. In a dark, damp, ship full of humans with a courting gift around her neck, marked by the scent of the Captain of the vessel.

It mattered little, was the conclusion T'Pol came to, her mother wasn't speaking to her anyhow.    


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Petty Officer Julianne Munoz was the night shift science officer. She actually volunteered for the unpopular mid-watch, the midnight to six AM shift. She liked the quiet, nothing really happened on the night shift. 

Ensign Jackson was the officer of the watch, at least until the Sub-Commander showed up. She never actually assigned herself the mid-watch, but sometime between oh-three hundred and the end of the shift she always showed up to relieve the Lieutenant. 

"Hey Julie" none of them could really pronounce Hakim's full name. He was from Nigeria and his mother had gone with the tribal tradition rather than the popular culture. Everyone called him Hakim, though, and he was a satisfactory pilot. His real skill lay in actual navigation. He could plot a course better than anyone in Starfleet could.

"Yeah" she stretched her legs out under the console; it was long shift sometimes.

"Take a look at this willya?" he had peculiar accent, but when he smiled it was the most delightful face she had ever seen. He was frowning now though. "It looks odd" 

"Can you be more specific?" she asked, bemused. 

"No not really" He sent her the information, it was a course correction, and there was some kind of distortion in the upper left quadrant.  

"What is it?" asked Jackson form the tactical station. 

"Looks like a distortion in the next parsec over, probably just the sensors getting a bit fuzzy, lemme run a diagnostic" she dialled in the specs for a full spectrum diagnostic on the main array. It wouldn't take more than ten, fifteen minutes. 

"Attention on deck!" Jackson barked sharply. She hit a few buttons before getting to her feet, but by that point, the Sub-Commander had already waved them back to their seats. 

"As you were," she replied mildly, crossing over to the Captain's chair that none of them felt comfortable taking, even if they were entitled as the officer of the watch. 

"Your report Sub-Commander!" Jackson presented her with the padd he'd been keeping the ships log on. He stood stiffly at attention but she simply raised a brow in the characteristic gesture. 

"As ease Ensign, and thank you, I appreciate it" Everyone had noticed that, since Betazed, the Sub-Commander had been much more relaxed. She'd eased up on her insistence on protocol. Not her performance standards, she was Vulcan, but she'd gone out of her way to be more open and courteous to the crew. Among some of the crew, there had been vulgar suggestions as to why, but most thought it was a nice touch.

As far as Julie was concerned, she'd liked the Sub-Commander from the get go. The first officer was the disciplinarian. She was in charge of the daily running of the ship. She needed to have and to hold standards that the crew were required to meet. Knowing The Sub-Commander and Trip both, she was actually satisfied that T'Pol had gotten the job. She really couldn't see Trip being the wicked witch of west, one of the more tame nicknames the crew had come up for T'Pol. 

"Very well Ensign, everything seems in order. I relieve you as officer of the watch." She clicked the padd into the console of the command chair, copying his log onto the ship's official log. 

"I stand relieved," he snapped to attention again and went back to tactical. Julie sighed, that was Lt. Reed shining through his Armoury boys; they were anal about protocol. 

The console beeped. The diagnostic was finished. There was nothing wrong with the main sensor array. That was odd. It looked just like an echo effect, an effect that should have appeared on the diagnostic. 

"Is there a problem?" Oh crap, the Sub-Commander had turned her laser-like gaze on her. Crap. Crap. Crap. 

"Uh, no ma'am, I was just running a diagnostic on the sensor array."

"For what reason?" 

"There's a…echo in the upper quadrant of the parsec over. Hakim was…I mean the helmsman, he was…he wanted to make a course correction and found the distortion. I just ran it through the diagnostic though, and it's fine" 

"On screen" T'Pol commanded softly, obligingly Julie punched up the viewer window on the main screen. "T'Pol to engineering" 

"What can I do ya for?" Trip ran a considerably looser ship down in the bowels of main engineering. His watch commander was as irreverent as the commander himself was.  

"There's a sensor distortion on screen that isn't appearing the automated diagnostic. Can you run a manual inspection for me please?" the engineer grumbled a bit, but gamely ran the diagnostic.

"Wait a minute, is it moving?" Hakim was looking at the screen. The distortion had appeared in the dark side of a gas giant's largest moon. It was now halfway past the third planet in the system. 

"Sensor's check out fine Sub-Commander, your distortion isn't a mechanical problem." she acknowledged the engineer and cut the channel. 

"How large is that distortion?" 

"A kilometre wide and couple long, you think it's a ship?" she asked. 

"No petty officer, I think it's several ships." She stood up on the deck, "Contact the Cardassians and the cargo ship." 

"Yes ma'am" 

The ugly, bare strutted interior of the Cardassian cruiser pulled up on the main screen. The person who answered the hail was female, but that was being kind. Julie didn't like these people. The Betazeds had been more than friendly, coming aboard to socialize, doing some crewmember exchanges, cross training … y'know courtesy stuff. The Cardassians had just sat there, plugging along at warp 1.3. 

"We've encountered a sensor distortion on the nearby spatial grid. I'm sending you the information now," Julie quickly prepared the data packet and sent it to the Comm, where it routed to the ship. "I believe it may be Orion ships in some kind of scattering field." 

"We've received your information. Contact us if you have anything more concrete." The channel cut out. 

"Well that was polite." Julie remarked under her breath. The Sub-Commander didn't seem to notice. The Betazed cargo ship opened a channel next. 

"Yes Sub-Commander?" it was Leading Crewman Charis, one of the late shift communications officers. 

"We've encountered a sensor distortion on the nearby spatial grid. I believe it is Orion ships in a scattering field. You might want to put the crew on alert." T'Pol didn't really change her tone at all, but Julie got the distinct impression that she was more concerned about the cargo ship than the battle cruiser. 

"Not much we can do Sub-Commander. We got a comet buster cannon, no torpedoes or phase cannons."

"Can you increase speed?" 

"Negative," the usually good natured Betazed looked worried, "We only have so much deuterium fuel. We increase now; we won't make it all the way to the colony. There's no way we could outrun them if that's what you're thinking"

"Understood, make your best time, Crewman" T'Pol signed off then turned to Julie, "You need to disperse that scattering field." 

"Yes ma'am" Julie's heart started to pound. 

"Where's their location?" she leaned over Hakim's shoulder, trying to fix the distance in her mind.

"Ten minutes away on an intercept course" Hakim's voice was tight. Dog fighting was not his best area of piloting. 

"Put us between the cargo ship and the pirates, we need to draw their fire." He drew up on the port side of the cargo vessel. The Cardassian ship drew up on the starboard, more for their protection than the cargo ships.  

"Should I go to tactical alert?" Jackson looked almost eager.  

"No," T'Pol sat back down, "Activate weapons, but leave the plating. We don't want them to know they've been spotted." 

It was a tense few minutes. Sweat poured into Julie's eyes. She was trying desperately to punch through the scattering field, but they seemed to be impenetrable. 

"Petty Officer?" 

"I'm working on it ma'am" she was breathing heavily. 

"Prepare a full spread of torpedoes and phase cannon fire. As soon as they're in range, open fire. Polarize the hull plating immediately after firing." 

"Yes, ma'am" 

They crept closer and closer, "I got something, it's not much…" 

On screen, three fat blobs replaced the one large blob. The first layer of scattering had been a rotating adjustment. She'd just found the right frequency. She got a sudden idea. "Can I extend the grappler? It has the quantum beacons." 

"We don't want to tip them off. Wait until they're in range" 

The seconds ticked by. "Ten seconds to firing range, nine, eight, seven… they're coming in range now." 

"Fire at will" cool as a cucumber, the Sub-Commander leaned forwards as if urging the torpedoes on by sheer force of willpower.    

There was a massive explosion. For a second the scattering field dropped. "There are six of them! Well there were anyhow!" 

"I can't get a lock!" Jackson focused on his console. 

"Switch to manual" T'Pol's voice was calm. 

The whole ship rocked, Julie rocked with it. After that brief moment, she lost the ships in the scattering field. "I'm extending the grappler" 

There were several hits in rapid succession. Her eyes blurred and her stomach squicked. Do not get sick do not get sick….  She hit the commands to cycle through the scans on the grappler array. 

"There we go!" Jackson sounded excited, "Got 'em"

Several shots in rapid succession landed on the Orion vessels, which had cleared up considerably. They responded by shooting at the belly of the ship. 

"We lost it" Julie said softly, "Omigod, we lost the grappler!" 

That got T'Pol's attention. She started to walk over. "Is it still attached?"  

"I think" Julie squeaked, then berated herself, 'You're a grown woman, a professional, there will be no squeaking.' 

"Petty officer, I have every confidence in you, however…"

Julie cut her off, "Take it" she leapt out of her chair and offered it to the Sub-Commander. Now was not the time for silly pride issues, T'Pol was the head bridge officer if anyone could crack that scattering field it was her. 

"You have the bridge" 

NO. No No No No No No No No. Not bridge. Who the hell was she to take command? The single lowest ranked enlisted person on the scene, that's who. The ship rocked again. She looked to T'Pol but the science officer had dropped into her own world, trying desperately to break the scattering field.

"The cargo ship has dropped out of warp" Hakim's voice rung over the deck. 

"Go to impulse" she said reflexively, then thought. What if we're damaged? How many ships are left? Can they knock out our engines? Can the cargo ship fight? 

"I can't get a lock on anything!"  Jackson shouted. 

"Fire…randomly. Cluster shots. Try to find them," she said, the next blast knocking her off her feet, tumbling onto the deck, "All cannons, save the torpedoes"

She picked herself off the deck, her nose bloodied. Great. Just great. "Where the hell are the Cardassians?" 

"They're…still at warp" the comm officer, reported 

"Open a channel!!" she shouted, angry as hell. As soon as the bare strutted ship appeared in the screen she shouted, "Where the hell are you going? We have an agreement!" A split second later she grimaced, Oooooo. Not the best thing to have said. Let's go ahead and insult our allies. It didn't seem to phase them either way.       

"We agreed to travel together; we did not agree to be eaten alive by pirates. Die bravely Enterprise. We are leaving this parsec."  The channel cut out.  

"Shit" she shouted, and for once didn't care who heard her. "Where's the cargo ship?" 

"They're trying to separate the module section. They're receiving heavy fire." 

"On screen" A large, oversize distortion blurred the entire screen. No wonder they couldn't get a lock. Angry red streams burst out of Enterprise, some connecting, but most just disappearing off into space. The cargo ship, trying to separate into a fighting unit, was directly in front of them. 

"Can you barrel roll in this thing?" 

"Barrel roll?" Hakim sounded flabbergasted, "Why?" 

"Do it, right around the body of the cargo ship. That ought to give them enough breathing space to separate. Fire at will at… them" she grabbed the back of the command chair to keep upright as the inertial dampers complained about the maneuver.

"Hull plating down to forty percent" They completed the roll as the cargo ship separated. 

"Emergency power?" she asked, timidly. Jackson nodded.  

"Got it" T'Pol's voice rang out. 

"Fire at will" Julie shouted. Another massive explosion rocked the ship. It wasn't from enemy fire. Jackson had got another one. Her butt dropped into the command chair. It was the only place that wasn't rocking violently.  

"Send the data to the cargo ship" 

"Already on it" T'Pol's calm voice responded, working at her post to synchronize their information.

"They've put some kind of beam on the cargo section." Hakim sounded confused, "It's moving!" 

"A tractor beam" T'Pol identified. 

"Try to disrupt it." Julie clung to the arms of the chair with a white knuckled grip. The Orion ships went to warp, taking the cargo section with them. 

"They're gone" she asked, "Are they gone?" 

"Yes" T'Pol replied. 

She didn't hear the door slide open, but a warm hand placed itself on her shoulder. "I think I can take it from here Petty Officer." 

She had never been happier to see Jonathan Archer in her life. "They're gone, sir. They're gone!"  

"So I see. You might want to take care of that." He let her go and she stumbled over, past the science console. Realizing just now that blood from her nose was pouring all down the front of her uniform; she put a hand to her face to staunch the flow. 

Some one caught it, placing a firm, hard grip on her shoulder. 

"Excellent, excellent work Petty Officer" T'Pol made it clear she wanted the crew to hear her, pitching her voice over the residual clamor, "That was above and beyond the call of duty." 

The bridge almost stopped. No one could quite believe T'Pol's open compliment. Even Julie had a hard time formulating a response. "Th-thank you ma'am" 

"The cargo ship is hailing," Hoshi took the conn. 

"On screen" Julie said, at the same time Captain Archer commanded. She blushed deeply, still holding her nose; it wasn't her call to take anymore. 

"Captain…" the cargo vessel looked as though it had taken heavy damage, "Thank you, you've likely saved my crew from slavery." 

"I just got here," he said, steering Julie back into the command center, "You'll have to thank my officer of the watch." 

"Then I thank you Petty Officer, but I fear I have bad news."  The Betazed man sighed, "We lost six crewmen on the cargo section. One of them was Chief Spencer." 

Spencer? Julie's gut dropped down into her shoes and she sat heavily on the captain's chair. James? He was gone. Two crewmembers traded over to the cargo vessel to help with some Engineering improvements: Chief Spencer and Crewman Randall.

She sent a furtive look to Captain Archer, who nodded approvingly, before she asked, "What about Crewman Randall?"

"She's fine" he hung his head, "I'm very sorry for your loss" 

"They're not lost yet" Archer's voice sounded steely, "We're going after them" 

"I'm afraid that's impossible Captain, the Orion's mask their ion trails. There's no way you can track them" the Betazed man, nodded orders to his helmsman, "Thank you for the escort Captain Archer, but I'm afraid we have to go back home" 

"Turn your ship around." T'Pol's voice was as hard and angry as anyone had ever heard it. She stood and gave the Cargo Captain 'the look'. "We've risked our crew to pull your ship out of danger; I think we deserve the same courtesy. We will not leave our man behind."  

"No one has ever been able to track an Orion vessel," he said with finality.

"I will" T'Pol lifted her chin in a defiant challenge. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter 10

The only problem in issuing a challenge is meeting it. Six hours into her analysis of the missing warp trail T'Pol blinked fatigue from her eyes. She'd settled into the science chair as though she were meditating, crossed legs and long deep breaths. Her hands had not stopped moving over the keys since she'd begun her vigil, and her wrists and fingers burned with every movement. 

However, that wasn't the only thing that burned. Somehow, some way, a certain amount of possessiveness had worked it's way into her psyche. This was _her_ vessel they had attacked. That was _her_ crewmember they'd gone and abducted. _She _was going to retrieve him come hell or high water. 

 Whoever had done this was good. Very good. Almost as good as she was. Or as she good as could be, given the right equipment. Nevertheless, failure was not an option. She would crack this encoding if she had to re-program the entire sensor system to do it.   

Making a very quick, conscious decision, T'Pol forced herself deeper into the trance. She shut down her peripheral awareness. Voices from the bridge ceased to meet her ears. Hunger, cold, fatigue, pain… all of the sensations she just turned off. 

It was a dangerous thing to do. Very dangerous.  She was asking too much of her body already, enough was bound to become enough. More stress now would incur even more violent feedback later on, but she allowed herself to be sustained by her fury and fuelled by rage. Logic flew into the face of her principles and she let herself become livid with seething anger. 

Her determination did not go unnoticed. As the eight hour mark passed Trip Tucker showed up on the bridge for his scheduled shift. T'Pol was still at her console clicking away at the station, seemingly in her own world.

"Incoming message from the cargo ship, sir" 

"Put her through" Trip stood in his chair. The haggard face of the Captain appeared on the viewscreen. 

"Commander Tucker, how long are we going to sit here and wait? Your Sub-Commander isn't going to make any more progress than the past three decades of Betazed de-coding efforts. We're doing nothing here but wasting fuel," he sounded aggravated, and Trip could really understand why, after all, they had a schedule and a limited fuel supply. 

Nevertheless, T'Pol said she could break it. For all his moping, whining, and complaining about her 'Vulcan superiority' she'd never once failed to do something she set her mind to, not once in more than a year's work. It was all fine and good for him to pick on the Sub-Commander, but no way was he letting just anyone in on the fun.      

"Keep yer shirt on Captain," Trip reassured the man calmly, "If T'Pol says she can do it… well I'd be willin' ta give her the benefit o' the doubt."

"How much longer Commander?" 

"Until we get it," he said firmly.  The Betazed, in aggravation, cut the channel.

Trip looked over again, to the science console, and worried. She'd completely tuned out everything but her analysis. He was even a little guilty. He remembered his accusation: 'like a good little machine'. Was she just doing this to prove him wrong? Or right? Or… he couldn't really understand it. 

It had taken him a few days to think about what she said to him in the gym. First thing, he just blew it off as her attempt to justify herself, but it kept intruding on his mind. There was something in her eyes, her voice that day, which really stuck to him. He knew better than to say it, but it was almost passionate. 

Yeah, his mind warmed to the though, passionate. Not like a carnal lust kinda passionate, but she really meant what she was saying. Well first, she was admitting a lack of understanding, which to Trips understanding of Vulcans, was tantamount to sacrilege. 

Then, as if trying to confuse him further, she said she needed to learn from them. He could get on his high horse and pontificate about how Vulcans 'damn well needed to learn a few things', but the engineer, the practical, realistic part of him asked: what the hell would T'Pol need to learn from humans? 

She was Vulcan. She was educated in the single most prestigious school in the galaxy. She represented the best collection of scientists ever assembled. She was intelligent, skilled, and resourceful. What else was there? 

"Sir?" Petty Officer Munoz was standing at his chair, and had clearly been standing there a while. 

"Sorry, jus'…wool-gathering" he took her report of the battle actions and looked it over. He was surprised that T'Pol had given this kid command, but as usual, she'd turned out right. Julie had handled herself well. 

"Perfect" he smiled at her, but weakly, and clipped it into the recording port on the chair, "An' nice job, Julie, you really stepped up" 

"Thank you sir" she moved to leave, and then paused. "Sir?"

"Yup?" 

"Do you…" she looked sidelong over her shoulder, "Do you think it can be done?" 

"If it can be scattered, there's got to be a way to re-assemble it. And if there's a way to do it, you know the Sub-Commander… hell'll freeze over before she'll admit she can't do it."

"Well frankly sir, I've been looking over the data, I don't see how it's possible." She looked almost ashamed. "I don't mean to insult the Sub-Commander or anything, but shouldn't we be exploring some other options?" 

"Like what?"

"Well…" she thought for a second, "I don't know. Maybe the Betazed maps might have some information on where they hide. Or the Cargo ship. They might be able to track some of the shipment. Something like that." 

"Well as soon as we get the quantum beacons get back on line she can have at them, which ought to help her out a lot." Jon was working on their re-assembly. He was the only one who even remotely understood how they worked.  "S'good ideas though, go for it" 

"Sir?"

"Your idea, petty officer, run with it" 

"Me sir?" when she saw the look her gave her, she quickly agreed, "Yes sir, I'll get right on it" 

Ordinarily he would have taken her suggestion and given it to someone else to complete, or taken it himself. Nevertheless, she'd proved that she could handle responsibility. Hell, she'd proved a lot more than that. Even Trip had seldom commanded Enterprise through a battle. 

"Do you want me to contact the cargo ship again sir?" the com officer asked, having overheard the conversation. Trip decided he didn't want to talk with the cargo captain again. 

"Go for it Jules, I'm gonna go check on the beacons. You get the big chair." According to protocol, the next highest ranked officer, after him, was supposed to take the chair. Ensign Bentley was the rightful officer of the watch. She was at helm, but made no noise about his decision. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who found a new respect for the young enlisted woman 

Down in the launch bay, they'd set up what was left of the grappler arm and the quantum beacons. Luckily, the arm sheared off above the most vital connections. Everything was fried, but the hardware was all mostly intact. 

"You keepin' my people right Jon?" 

"Hey Trip," he didn't return Trip's joviality, his face was creased with lines that hadn't been there when they left space dock. This assignment was changing him. He was a more cautious, less likely to hare off all on his own, and he… he was actually getting along with a Vulcan. 

"How's it goin'?" he asked, trying to kid Jon out of his frown of concentration. Jesus, talkin' to him lately was like trying to pry classified information out of T'Pol. When did he grow pointy ears? 

"Slowly," he made another adjustment to the readings, "Very slowly, I'm glad you're here. You can take the group with the arm attachment." 

Trip's displeasure at being delegated must have shown because Jon looked up and apologised, "I'm sorry Trip, we need to get this done quickly so that T'Pol can get the quantum beacons." 

Oh so that's how the cookie was crumbling, was it? Ever since the 'secret' mission it had been nothing but T'Pol this, and the Sub-Commander that. Not just Jon but the rest of the whole damn crew. Had everyone forgotten whom she was working for? She was one of them, a Vulcan. 

Apparently, the crew no longer thought so. They were working feverishly, with the eager precise motion of those who needed to get work done. Trip hardly had to administrate his team; they took it on themselves to see that everything was working perfectly. Every connection, every circuit, every weld was checked, double-checked and then given a swift kick for good measure.

It wasn't just Starfleet protocol, it was Enterprise taking care of her own. 

Trip even got into the spirit of the moment. With him and Jon working together the quantum beacon was finished quickly. He might not really understand the mechanics behind how they worked, but he'd never met a busted piece of equipment he couldn't fix.

"Archer to the Bridge" 

"Uh, Petty Officer Munoz here sir" Jon gave Trip a surprised look, but the Commander just shrugged. 

"Tell the Sub-Commander we got the quantum beacon online," the Captain sounded tired, but triumphant. 

"I'll see what I can do sir, but she's kinda in her own little world." The Petty Officer sounded uncertain, but behind them, the beacons whirred to life. The airlock horn sounded, alerting all the crew in the bay that someone wanted to open the doors. The engineers gave a somewhat ragged cry of delight. 

"Never mind, Petty Officer, I think she got the message" the Captain rubbed his aching shoulders and grinned, "Thanks anyhow" 

"So…" Trip said, trying to sound casual, "How's about a celebratory beer? I hear Senior Chief Hardeman has a fresh batch out." 

They'd started the voyage with a finite quantity of alcohol aboard. Senior Chief Hardeman, a former boomer like Ensign Mayweather, had ingeniously created his own 'brewery' out of old hydraulic equipment in the engineering supply closet. He kept all the old bottles and simply had them re-filled. There was no shortage of customers. 

"Sounds like a plan" he got in the lift and was halfway down the ship before he realised they weren't heading to Jon's quarters. 

"Uh, Jon?" the Captain just waved a hand.

"Just checking up," he said amiably, "I'm starting to get a little concerned it's been almost twelve hours and she's still hasn't moved." 

"She's Vulcan, she can probably stay up for three days straight, fight twelve rounds with a heavy weight and climb a coupla' mountains without breakin' a sweat" Trip made a joke out of it but it fell a little flat. 

"Vulcans don't sweat. It's…an inefficient waste of water" Jon grinned.

Tucker laughed, "They even have efficient biology. Jeeez-us. Like cockroaches, ya stomp on 'em and stomp on 'em but they just set there and laugh" 

"One can only hope" Jon again sounded like he didn't quite get the joke. It was an odd thing for him to say, really. The lift opened up on the bridge, there was a bustle of activity.   

"Everything alright here?" Jon asked the Petty Officer, who truthfully looked a bit frazzled. He asked generally, but his eyes never wavered from the slim Vulcan at the science console.  

"Fine, sir" she shook her head a little, "just a bit….frantic" 

"How is she?" he asked, looking and sounding concerned. 

"Hasn't twitched" Julie offered a padd to the Captain, "Here's the alternate plan Commander Tucker and I were discussing. I looked up the frequency of attack, the locations, and several known systems that can support life, or that have been known to harbour pirates." 

Jon didn't let on that the 'alternate' plan hadn't yet been discussed.  He took the padd and thanked Julie. Again, he looked worriedly over to the Sub-Commander, "Call me…"

"The second anything happens, sir" She grinned, "sure thing." 

"Thanks" 

Trip fetched the bottles; cool with condensation, from a hollow behind the wall plating. The main coolant lines lay almost directly behind the wall of his quarters. It was a handy refrigerator. 

"Alternate plan?" Jon asked. 

"Just in case" Trip took a long pull on the bottle. "She's not infallible, y'know, Julie suggested we cover all our bases." 

"I understand" Jon downed about half of his beer on one steady swallow, face lost in thought, something he'd been frequently doing. 

"So what's eatin' ya?" Trip asked. 

"Beg your pardon?" Jon asked, sounding surprised. 

"C'mon Jon, we've known each other a long time...can't keep nothin' from this good 'ol boy." Trip toasted him with the frosty bottle, "Somethin's eatin' ya" 

"I don't know if I can really go in to it" Jon sighed and Trip knew immediately that the resident Vulcan was responsible for his friend's distress. 

"So what T'Pol got ya wrapped around her finger now? That it?" he sounded as disgusted as he felt, "Christ Jon, she's workin' you like a fiddle"    

 "She's a good person Trip" Jon sat down on the bed, facing him, "and she's really trying to understand us. She's working very hard to fit in. Why do you do keep putting her down?" 

"She's… Vulcan" he said, jumping to his feet, pacing, restlessly. "You know what they're like" 

"T'Pol" Jon stressed, "Isn't just a Vulcan. She's a person. You cannot hold her responsible for everything her people have done! Trip…" he trailed off, "Even I can see that, and I have more reason to be angry with Vulcan's than you do"

"Yeah well for a guy who's got problems with Vulcan's, you sure are getting' chummy with one" Trip accused. 

"Is that what this is about? My relationship with T'Pol?" 

"Relationship! Relationship? How can you have a relationship with a woman who doesn't even have emotions!" he threw up his hands, "It's like chicken without cornbread!"

"T'Pol has feelings," he smiled warmly, "she just hides them better than we do" 

"Oh now that's good, perfect way to get things started up. Jesus Christ. Jon you'd have more luck fallin' for the bedpost, and it's probably more outgoing" Trip sat on the bed and pointed at he aforementioned piece of furniture. 

"Trip you're not being fair. Since when did you ever talk to her, really talk, and not just bicker? Have you even? She's trying damn hard; I think it's only fair that you give her equal courtesy." He folded his arms across his chest. 

"Jon…"

"No Trip," he looked deadly serious, now, "I not going to listen to you insult her anymore. I thought that you got over whatever problems you had, and unless you have a specific, pointed, complaint…"

"No" he grumbled, "I'm sorry….she's just so Vulcan."

"And that is a short-sighted, prejudiced, intolerant view." Jon got up off the bed, "She's about as laid-back as a Vulcan can get. And if it's personal…." He sighed and rubbed his temple, "then I'm sorry, but you still need to keep a civil tongue in your head. Do you understand me?" 

"Yeah"

"Good" Jon stopped as he went to the door, "I'm sorry Trip. T'Pol is a wonderful person; I wish you could see that" 

He left. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Jon woke up, warm, comfortable, and squeezed into the farthest corner of his double bed. Like a cat, Sub-Commander T'Pol took up more space while sleeping that he would have thought physically possible. 

Twenty-two hours after she began her analysis, she came back to herself with a sliding thump. After landing, quite firmly, on her shapely rear, Petty Officer Munoz came over and helped her to her feet. 

Jon had made it up to the bridge in record time. He took over and wrapped his arm around her slim waist, and wound hers around his shoulder. The fact that she accepted his assistance in full view of the bridge crew indicated to him that she knew she'd extended herself too far. 

They made it to the turbo lift before her knees cut out from under her, without a murmur of protest she let him catch her knees and lift her into his arms. She was heavy, much heavier than she looked, heavier than he remembered. 

As he came back to his room later that night, he seriously debated crawling in next to her. Not because it he didn't want to, but that he didn't quite know how she'd react if she woke up and he was there, but he didn't have the willpower to resist.  

Now, she was sprawled over top his chest, somewhat constricting his breath but he didn't care. It was the most comfortable he'd ever been with a woman in his bed. He'd never really been much of a cuddler, but he tucked her close and inhaled the sharp cinnamon tang that she carried with her. 

Quite unconsciously, both of them were touching a considerable amount of the other's bare skin. For a sleeping couple it was natural, but as the dark shadow of a dream passed into T'Pol's psyche Jon felt a shiver. He didn't immediately connect the chills down his back with T'Pol's cataleptic mind. 

When images suddenly started to blink in and out of his mind's eye, he didn't immediately acquaint them with her either. However, as the nightmare took him by the shoulders and dragged him under he cried out sharply in protest. 

_He rattled against his manacles; the bonds were tight, too tight. His wrists already rubbed raw and bleeding from his attempts to escape. Green blood had puddled at his feet from the old-fashioned IV line sloppily inserted into the vein in his arm. His arm was slim, hairless, and powerful. A collar was around his neck, he could feel the electrodes, imploring his brain to respond truthfully.  _

_As a dark shape approached, he felt his mind slide to a halt. He knew what they wanted. He could feel the other drugs swimming through his veins. They skewed his perception; his third eyelid had been twitching open and closed for about five minutes now, alternately shading and lighting his vision. _

_"Where is Archer?" _

_"I don't know" he was compelled to answer. _

_"Who are you working with from the future?" _

_"The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined the time travel is impossible" _

_The Suliban touched his face, sending skitters of telepathic feelings up his spine, he couldn't block, couldn't resist. The questioner was enjoying this; he was taking a sick pleasure from having a helpless captive.  _

_"Does Captain Archer believe that opinion?" _

_"It's not an opinion" It was a fact, a solid, historical, verifiable fact.  _

_"Does Captain Archer believe in that…determination?"_

_"Captain Archer believes that crewman Daniels comes from the future."_

_ Illogical: time travel was impossible; therefore, no crewmember could purport to be from the future. Logic was the foundation. The cornerstone.  _

_"But Daniels is dead" _

_"Captain Archer believes he saw Crewman Daniels two days ago"_

_"Your Captain is gone. Did Daniels take him into the past or the future?"_

_"The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined that time travel is impossible" _

_It is impossible, his mind screamed, impossible. _

_His skin was on fire, the drugs made his eyes photosensitive. The sounds were unnaturally amplified…._

"Kroykah!" T'Pol shouted, using his shirt as leverage to lift him bodily. He flew an indeterminate distance, before crashing into a bulkhead, back first. The breath knocked out of him, he gasped trying to take in oxygen. 

"Kroykah…" she whimpered softly, sitting up, quite awake, but seemingly still in the grips of the dream.

"T'Pol" he gasped as the breath returned to him, and her head snapped around, her eyes wide as dinner plates. "Are you … alright?" 

"Jon," she looked lost, and not quite focused, as if the memory still held her in its throes, "Wani ra yoko itishta ta?" 

"English T'Pol," he got up, making sure all the pieces were still there, realizing now, that it was smart to let a sleeping Vulcan lay. 

"Where…these are yours." She shook her head, as if trying to force out the cobwebs, then she really focused on him, "You are not dressed."  

"No I'm not" he stood, making his way, gingerly, to the bedside, his undershirt was in ribbons and several angry red scratches covered his chest, "I was sleeping with you." 

She inhaled sharply though her nose then closed her eyes, "Yes…you were." Her hand strayed to the still warm spot on the mattress where they'd been curled together. "We…were sleeping. Then, then …the dream" 

"Yeah" he stood directly in front of her, shedding the tatters of his blue shirt and somehow resisting the temptation to haul her into a tight bear hug. "You pulled me in one way or another, we must have been touching"

She opened her mouth and he knew, intuitively, it was to apologise. With one big movement, he pulled her close up against his chest and ran his fingers through her baby fine hair. She was trembling like a leaf. 

"Don't you dare apologise T'Pol. Don't you dare." He used his weight to pull her down, until they curled back up again, him crushing her to his chest, leg thrown over hers. "Let it out… c'mon sweetie, just cry it out, I'll be here. Just let go" 

"My shields…" she protested weakly. 

"The hell with them" he growled, "You been in my head before"

That little consideration was enough to push her over the edge she started to sob. She railed against her culture, cursed her gods, and blamed her parents. In human terms, she worked herself into a very good cry. 

"Better?" he asked, sometime later, when her breath came back to normal and she relaxed. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, but somehow, he knew that whatever veneer of control she had been clinging to with teeth and toenails was gone.  

"I know," he rocked her close, conscious of her loss of discipline, "Just breathe with me T'Pol we can get it back, just breathe." 

And she did, slowly and deeply, he could feel through the little tickle on his neck, that she was incrementally relaxing, not nearly enough to put her in the position to re-build, but that was no longer going to throw him around at the next sharp noise. 

"Jon…" she began, her voice quavering, "I need…" 

"I know," he shushed her, rubbing slow circles on her back, "You need to relax first, just breathe, then we can worry about getting you back together. You're gonna let me in this time, T'Pol, we're going to work on it together." 

"You're…" 

"Does it really matter I'm human?" he read the thought easily, "You did it that day in the café, pulled from me, you can do it again."

"I need…there is a box, in the bottom drawer of my desk. My candles… and clothing, I need to…" she moved to get up, but he intercepted it easily.

"I'll get them, you stay here" He stepped into a loose set of trousers, she curled into a ball, clutching a pillow close to her chest, he grabbed a t-shirt to cover the angry scratches on his chest. 

The box was where she told him it would be, it was long and deep, with a complex locking mechanism. The candles he stacked on top. Then he went to her closet. Thankfully, she organized better than any of the other females in his aquaintance did. He grabbed a top and bottom of a similar earth tone.

He felt the tickle between his shoulder blades as soon as he walked in the door. That was odd, T'Pol told him Vulcans were touch telepaths and she wasn't touching him. She accepted the clothing and supplies gratefully, stepping into the tunic and trousers, and setting the candlesticks on the floor. The meditation candles lit; she knelt before the box, with a certain amount of trepidation. 

"You ready?" he asked, sitting on the floor near the area she'd cleared. 

"I must be, it must be done," she replied, she placed a finger over the surface of the locking mechanism, the latch popped. She lifted the lid, he couldn't see inside, but she removed a well-worn book, a small incense burner, a very wicked looking dagger, and a long thin box. She lifted and opened the box.  

"Humans are not inherently telepathic," she began, "There are certain….methods that can induce a telepathic state; a mind meld is the most direct."

"I thought…" he began

"I will not put you through the…trauma," she began to set the stage, the burner, the candles, "Even if I had the skill, I would not risk your infection either. There is a way, however," 

"But?" he prompted, familiar enough with her methods of explaining that he realized she was leading up to something. 

"It is still highly… intimate," she said, sounding troubled, "We, neither of us, would have any control over what the other can see." 

"Isn't that what a mind meld is?" 

"Yes," she finished setting up the arrangement. 

"I don't understand"

"I'm not surprised." She opened the oblong box, revealing a sinister looking selection of vials and a hypospray. "You must trust me, even knowing that my shields are gone and my control is… less than ideal." 

He still felt the tickle in his neck, he knew, without quite knowing how he knew, that she was uneasy, she had never done this before, she was frightened about opening herself up to another being, yet again, and being irreparably hurt. 

"Alright" the thought of her not trusting herself, because of what Tolaris did to her was enough to push his decision. 

She mixed a small, measured bit of one of the powders with water and put it in the hypo with the skill of a practiced chemist. "This ought to help stimulate the mid-brain; it encourages the telepathic receptors." 

"Are there any side effects?" 

"Headache," she said absently, attending the mixture carefully, "A sense of confusion, perhaps vertigo, until the effects wear off." 

"Nothing extreme?" 

"No"

"Ok" he accepted the injection, then the tickle turned into a flood, bombarded with images, he could sense T'Pol clearly, her mind a pillar of stone being brutally worn away by screaming winds of emotion. 

Her eyes snapped open, clearly surprised, and then her brows frowned, he could see a bit of her concentration diverted from her effort to hold the pillar together, and then he 'heard' the voice between his ears. 

_Can you sense this? _

She was 'speaking' Vulcan, he 'heard' Vulcan, but he understood it as easily as if she had spoken English. 

"Yeah" he replied hoarsely, not realising that he didn't need to respond verbally. 

_Fascinating _

The ritual forgotten, she reached for his hand, meeting his palm halfway. The contact intensified the bond; he could almost imagine standing there on the Womb of Fire, the hot winds chafing his skin, and the air satisfyingly dry and thin. 

He opened his eyes and he was there. T'Pol, who looked different somehow, was standing directly in front of the pillar, wearing nothing but a linen kilt and a wrap that provided the most basic modesty. 

"You should not be able to come here" she observed, he could feel the terrible weight of her intellect shifting to focus on him. "This is my kah-hir, my centre, the core of my katra. You should not be here." 

"I can leave" he offered, then amended, "Well I think I can" 

"No" she ran a hand up through her hair, "It doesn't disturb me" 

He heard the 'as it should' she left unspoken, she knew he heard it, but she left it unspoken. In a flash, he was not wearing his uniform anymore; he could feel the hot air around his legs and chest. He looked down, and he had on sandals and a slightly shorter version of the linen kilt that she was wearing. 

He looked up, saw her expression, and nearly stopped breathing. She was smiling, it was austere and subtle, but the corners of her mouth defiantly twitched up. A great roll of amusement passed through her, and he could hear the mental colour of laughter. Another twitch and he was back in his uniform.  

"I apologise," she said sternly, but was more amused than contrite, "That was unethical."

"It's your mind" he knelt at the base of the pillar and traced one of the engravings, which crumbled a bit under the pressure of his finger, he drew his hand back sharply. "This is it isn't it?" 

"The essence of my being? Yes," She placed a fond hand on the pillar, "It's not really, just the medium by which I comprehend it. There are other teachings, but this is what I have learned as the meaning of what it is to be Vulcan."

"Standing alone in the middle of a desert?" 

"Holding firm in the face of the storm," She motioned to the roiling clouds above their heads. "I am using your strength to hold back the clouds, but I cannot continue to do that forever. "  

"So how do we make this" he watched as another flake of stone chipped and crumbled, "More sturdy" 

"It is an act of will"

"Will?"

She put a hand on the pillar and he felt a slight tremor, and her mind turned all of its attention, every bit of concentration, onto the stone in front of her. She removed it and the consistency changed from crumbling sandstone to dark, thickly packed granite.

"Yes," as she pulled away, the granite softened, but held. More than what it was, but not what it needed to be. 

"That's it?" 

"It's deceptively simple" T'Pol looked disapprovingly at the crumbling stone, "There was a time, Jonathan, when this pillar stretched taller than my ancestral home and as wide at the base as your stateroom. It packed like glass, smooth and durable." 

"It will be like that again T'Pol," he placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them lightly, "I'll do whatever I can"    


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

When Malcolm cracked open the hatch of the Orion ship a sour aroma wafted from the interior. Archer could see T'Pol's nostrils flare at the scent, but she refrained from commenting. After nearly three days of chasing, they'd finally tracked down one of the small warships that had attacked Enterprise. 

The ship had put up a token fight once they realised that Enterprise had broken the scattering code that had protected them in the initial encounter. Malcolm had spent fifteen minutes with two of Trip's engineers and a chemical torch. The hatch was no longer an obstacle. 

"Are you sure about this T'Pol?" he checked with her yet again, she had insisted on being the point man for the boarding party, once again asserting that the pirates wouldn't hazard harming her. 

"It would be illogical for another to assume the danger, Captain," she said in one of her 'Vulcan' tones, "They won't run the risk of firing on me."

"Really Sub-Commander, I think you overestimate the effect you have on these people." Malcolm stood up, taking off the heavy welding helm off his brow and wiping the beaded sweat, "Are you absolutely sure they won't fire on you?"

"No" she said, "but there is a high possibility that they will not, significantly higher than the likelihood that they would ignore you."    

"At least take a phase pistol with ya'," Trip handed her one of the bulky human weapons for the locker that the armoury officers brought with them. 

"I assure you Commander I can take care of myself." 

"With what? Your sleeves?" she was wearing a full formal robe over her uniform, so no one would mistake her for one of the humans. 

"Trip…" the Captain, said warningly, "I'm sure the Sub-Commander has a plan…" he was not too entirely sure about her 'plan' either.

"Yes" she watched dispassionately as Malcolm and the engineers finished punching through the solid door. As they backed up to give it a good running, shove she put out a hand. "Allow me" 

"Sub-Commander…" he trailed off as she walked up to the door and gave it a heave, it fell open as though it weighed nothing. 

A strangled shout emerged form the interior of the vessel as she deliberately flared out the sleeves and front panels of the robe to accentuate the 'Vulcan-ness' of her person. Trip muttered something about a 'flair for the dramatic'. 

"Shield your eyes" she pulled the pin on some kind of grenade, Jon covered his face long enough to hear the muffled impact. A thick cloudy smoke poured out of the hatch as stifled thumps sounded just inside.

"What in blue blazes… that was an Antaran smoke grenade, Sub-Commander! Where on Earth did you get that? They're not standard compliment!" Leave it to Malcolm to focus on the details. It was a question, however, that Jon wanted answered as well.

"I spent ten years of my life working against Orion pirates in the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Cn625 nebulas for the Vulcan Ministry of Security. It has been…" she paused, and seemed almost surprised at the recollection, "Nearly thirty years, but I do believe I'm quite capable of handling an incursion into one small scout ship."

"That doesn't explain where you got the grenade"   

"Standard issue for security operatives" 

"You're no longer a security operative" 

"I said it was standard issue," she paused, a certain smugness creeping into her voice, "If they never bothered to re-claim it, that is none of my concern" 

"Just how much of this 'standard issue' did they never bother to re-claim?" he asked, sounding amused. 

"Enough" the smoke ceased pouring out quite as thickly, he eyes focused back on the door, "Rest assured Mr. Reed, I am not going to mount an armed insurrection aboard Enterprise." 

"Not me I worry about" The smoke cleared enough that they could see nearly a half dozen green skinned Orion's laying motionless on the deck, all armed. 

"Don't bother checking life signs, they're all dead." She said it emotionlessly as she picked up the empty or presumably empty smoke grenade. She had a tone in her voice that was uncharacteristic. There was no remorse. 

"I didn't think Vulcan's killed." Trip said cautiously, as if she was about to whirl around and turn on them as well.   

"We've been in active war with the Orion pirates for nearly two millennia. We have liberated over thirty six inhabited systems, sixteen sectors of charted space, forty nebulae, and nearly a hundred asteroid belts." T'Pol accessed a panel in the wall, and began the patient process of hacking into the main computer system. 

"That's insane; I can't believe they were ever that powerful. Even we can walk over one their warships." Malcolm stepped over the bodies, followed by his security team. "They traffic in narcotics and slaves mostly, not exactly a great empire if you ask me." 

"They're really more of a nuisance than anything now," Archer said softly, realising how much the Vulcans had to do with the reduction. 

"We lost nearly fifty thousand Vulcans, not including our allies and the slaves that died before they could be freed. I should hope they are little more than a nuisance." she frowned; the encoding was apparently harder than she had anticipated.    

"Why?" Trip asked, "I mean it's not like they ever bothered you? You said they don't even attack Vulcan ships. Seems kinda pre-emptive ta' me."

"There's a reason for that" she gave a slight head tilt of satisfaction as she broke into the Orion system. "My people do not tolerate slavery. We never have, even in the time before the Great Reformation. The Orion's long ago learned that, to borrow a phrase, we will move heaven and earth to eradicate slavery from the galaxy." 

Trip opened his mouth to contest that humans didn't tolerate it either but Archer caught him. T'Pol would know better and there was no need to drag up the dirty laundry of human history. Malcolm came up to T'Pol's panel and began to download the specs for the ship. 

"What is that?" he asked, pointing at the screen. 

"The interrogation room," she identified, drawing up slightly and stiffening, "You probably don't want to go in there, it won't be pleasant." 

Jon was sure he was the only one who heard the tension in her voice as she mentioned the 'interrogation' chamber, he'd found, after that night they spent in his quarters, that he could read her moods and voice a lot better. He'd become a lot more familiar with Vulcan body language. It no longer surprised him when she drew up to her full, albeit slight, stature in offence or hurt. He understood how, if not entirely why, she reacted the way she did. 

He came up behind them, pretending to look at the interface. He whispered, softly, so softly that he couldn't really hear it himself. "You don't have to do this" 

His hand was on the small of her back, but it was hardly necessary, another more interesting side effect of him spending that much time in her head was her sudden ability to read his thoughts at a distance. Not a great distance, only a few inches, but they no longer needed to touch skin to skin. 

_I had hoped you would understand why I do_, the voice between his ears, he'd become more used to that too, _and you must realise by now that you don't need to speak aloud _

  "Alright Malcolm, Trip, let's get this show on the road, I want answers" as the armoury officer prepared his team to search the ship, he let his hand slide up to T'Pol's shoulder and 'thought' "_It feels funny_" 

"I concur," she said aloud, "Lt. you need to take extra caution, there should be anywhere from four to eight more crew members and they will not submit alive."

"I understand" and began to slow, steady search of the deck. Door by door the armoury team blasted through and secured the engine room, the Orion armoury, and several of the crew quarters. 

They worked circularly around the core of the ship, the interrogation room, and the bridge.  As they got closer and closer, T'Pol became more and more agitated, until Trip, of all people, noticed. 

"Hey you ok?" 

"There is a Betazed in the interrogation room. She is in considerable…distress" T'Pol's voice was strained enough for everyone to hear the tension; Malcolm came back from his forward position as the armoury officer and looked concerned. 

"What kind of 'distress'? Malcolm asked, calling his team to a halt. 

"Considerable" she replied, bringing her brows together in the characteristic Vulcan gesture of concentration.  

"Can you home in on it?" he asked eagerly, wanting desperately to find the hostages. Everyone was hoping and praying that Chief Spencer was going to be captive on the ship. That they'd find him alive and well. 

"Certainly" she moved again to the head of the column, and they followed T'Pol's mental lead until they heard a bloodcurdling scream. She suddenly swayed at the knees, pointing to the bulkhead on her right, "They're torturing her, blow the panel. BLOW THE PANEL MALCOLM!" 

He didn't hesitate, grabbling a penetration grenade, he stuck it to the bulkhead and yanked T'Pol out of the blast radius. The whole floor of the ship bucked, and debris flew all over the corridor. In a flash T'Pol was in the room, green plasma bursts sounding in her wake. 

Jon's heart dropped like a stone. Heedless of the danger, and very much like the woman already in there, he shouldered through the security personnel to bull his way into the ragged hole in the bulkhead. 

The shooting had stopped. T'Pol was standing there, covered in plasma burns, holding one hand to her jaw and the other to the head of the Betazed woman strapped a table in the middle of the room. Jon knew a mind touch when he saw it. 

"Don't touch her," he threw an arm across Trip's chest as he made a move to go to T'Pol. The younger man looked puzzled but held his position. Jon now got a good look at the room, and decided that the Suliban had been taking a few notes from the Orion's on how to treat prisoners. 

It was ugly, there were two other women chained to the wall, Malcolm, and the security team were helping to free them. The room was full of vials, of hyposprays, of different kinds of bladed instruments that Jon didn't even hazard a guess at their purpose, but it all looked sinister. 

"She needs a mind-healer" T'Pol's voice jarred him out of contemplation. She was still holding her jaw, green blood welling up between her fingers. She seemed a bit shocked, and he now noticed the many plasma burns across her front.

"You need a doctor," Malcolm came up to her holding an auto-suture, "Those plasma burs are nasty." 

"Actually they don't hurt at all," she sounded somewhat surprised, but Jon realised that the adrenaline surge, or whatever Vulcan's had that passed for adrenaline, was still running strongly enough that she wasn't feeling anything. 

"Hey" Trip's voice cut through the deck, "I think I found the hatch to the bridge" 

"Allow me" T'Pol was still trailing a substantial bit of green blood, but she paid it no heed, climbing the ladder and he heard the distinctive sound of a plasma weapon when T'Pol pushed the circular grate up. 

      She grunted but gave no other indication that the shot had hit. Someone from within the room gave a very feminine gasp of surprise. Malcolm insisted this time that he and the security team go first, so by the time Archer made it to the Orion Bridge, T'Pol was speaking animatedly with a very scantily clad Orion female. 

The bridge resembled more of a frat house party room than a starship bridge; there were bottles shattered all over the place. A pole welded to the ceiling, with a chain attached, that apparently was wrenched off the collar of the green-skinned woman.  

After a few seconds, the translator kicked in and the language the Orion woman and T'Pol were speaking became understood to all.  

"Yes lady," the dancer said, "I remember the incident. My master fought bravely, the Leader presented him with several of the captured slaves, the females. I've never seen pink-skins like them before. The rest were put on the transport and taken to the depot, I never saw any of the males." 

"Do have any idea where this depot is?"  

"I have better than an idea," the woman sounded triumphant, "They thought I was ignorant, but I have been learning. I know some of the command codes, the stations, and my masters were careless. I even got one of their plasma weapons." 

"I realise" T'Pol said wryly, and the green skinned woman flushed darker, "You're a fair shot for never having used it before" 

"A thousand apologies my master," the woman dropped to the deck in an unmistakable posture of submission and supplication, "if I had known…" 

"I am not your master, nor is my Captain, nor is anyone but yourself. Take charge of your own fate, little sister, any one of this crew would have done what I did in my place" T'Pol pulled the woman up from the deck and placed her hands on her shoulders as she spoke. 

"But you have freed me… my life is yours to command" the woman sounded confused. 

"Then my command is thus: take your life, and for every wrong that has been inflicted on you, give back to the galaxy long life, happiness, and prosperity." T'Pol sounded weary, as if the events of the day were finally starting to catch up to her, "You are superior in every way to the animals that have kept you in bondage. Never believe any different." 

"Yes my lady" T'Pol was beginning to breathe heavily, the shock starting to catch up with her. The Orion wound an arm around her and supported the Vulcan, Jon moved to help, but T'Pol waved him off with a shake of her head. 

"Uh…Sub-commander?" Malcolm sounded uncertain and looked a little green around the gills, no pun intended. 

"Yes Mr. Reed?"  

"You might want to look at this," he moved away from a panel in the bulkhead, revealing a glass display case. A close look made Jon's stomach turn. The case was a display of ears. Pointy ears. 

"I know Mr. Reed," she sounded even wearier, "They are considered trophies. If you wouldn't mind, I'm sure there are many families on Vulcan that would appreciate the remains" 

"Ah… no I, I don't mind at all" he tried to sound professional, but it was hard. 

Jon went over and wrapped T'Pol's other arm around he shoulders, and made eye contact with the Orion, "Let's get her to sickbay" 

"Sick bay?"

"The doctor" Understanding dawned behind the golden yellow eyes and she helped him haul the increasingly unresponsive Sub-Commander to sickbay.      


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Dr. Phlox fed his Pyrethian bat. It was not as active as it should have been and the lack of activity worried him, usually he couldn't keep it in the cage, lately it had lapsed into a kind of torpor.

He was, therefore, quite preoccupied, when Sub-Commander T'Pol and Captain Archer walked in the sliding glass doors. He'd examined the Sub-Commander briefly, after her twenty-two hour shift, but other than a compounded case of exhaustion, she was as well as reasonably expected. 

The plasma burns from the Orion weapons were actually more of a nuisance than an actual hazard. Her Vulcan uniform had taken the brunt of the energy, they were exceedingly painful, but not life threatening. The Sub-Commander had insisted that he do nothing but clean the wound on her jaw, where the Captain of the Orion vessel had tried to decapitate her. If he had to hazard a guess, some primitive corner of her mind wanted a tangible mark of what had happened.  

She been on light duty for the past few days, working mostly with the information they'd collected from the Institute. The progress they'd made in the treatment of Pa'Nar syndrome was nothing short of miraculous for the time that they'd been working. Her synaptic deterioration now all but stopped, the only difficulty, or rather the only difficulty that she would admit to, was an acute case of insomnia. 

He wasn't quite sure what brought on the sleeplessness, though he did have a number of theories, but treating a Vulcan for a psychological disorder was like performing brain surgery on the worlds leading neurologist. Talk about the worst patients….

   "Doctor?" it was Captain Archer's voice. Not anticipated, but neither was it completely unexpected. 

"Yes, Captain…Ah Sub-Commander" he bustled over to the examination table, shrouded by the curtain, she took her privacy as seriously as the Vulcan she was, which is to say, she wanted not to be seen in sickbay.

"The Captain" she gave him a sidelong glance, with one of the Vulcan non-expressions that usually indicated she was humouring the one she was looking at, "Insists that I be examined again before I return to full duty." 

"A wise precaution, Sub-Commander," he fiddled with the settings on the medical scanner, calling up the appropriate scans for the copper based life form, Vulcan physiology was so intriguing. 

"Oh my" he nearly dropped the scanner at the reading he took of her mid-brain, the seat of her telepathic ability. It was the first and most crucial area attacked by her syndrome. "Sub-Commander: tell me, have you been meditating?" 

She exchanged a much more intimate glance with the Captain than she should for such a trivial question, something the Denobulan doctor was surprised to see and noted accordingly. The two of them had grown much closer in recent days, the relationship bore studying, a first interspecies liaison for both peoples. 

 "In a manner of speaking," she temporised, another mental red flag went up. T'Pol never gave an answer that was anything less than the whole and unvarnished truth unless she was protecting something. 

"Well you may want to take a look at these readings," he projected the image onto the main viewing screen above the imaging chamber. 

"Fascinating" he recognised her expression, it was the one she used while looking 'through' people while her mind travelled at levels that he couldn't begin to comprehend. 

"What is it?" poor Captain Archer was neither scientist nor physician, the intricacies of the Vulcan mid-brain were mysteries to him. Phlox pulled up two previous scans he had of T'Pol's cerebral cortex. 

"This is a scan I took, of her brain when she first came aboard as part of her physical, its standard procedure. I'll colour it so you can see the differences." He tapped the appropriate key strokes, and the important sections obligingly outlined in green, "now this is the scan I took of the Sub-Commander yesterday, when she came off duty several days ago." 

"Wow" he looked dismayed. Even to untrained eyes the deterioration was palpable, "I didn't know it was like this" 

"Now this is the scan I took just now" he pulled up the recent scan and colorized it blue.

"It's different." He observed, not quite knowing how, or really comprehending the magnitude of the achievement. 

"The pathways have stabilized," she explained, sounding vaguely bored, "They are still damaged, of course, neural tissue is notoriously non-regenerative, but it a stable, albeit somewhat crude configuration" 

"T'Pol" Phlox burst out; he was frustrated at her depreciating statements, for the beginning she had become increasingly negative about the truly remarkable progression of her treatment, "This is more than 'crude' this is bordering miraculous. I know Vulcans are capable of self-regeneration, but I've never seen the effects this precise on this kind of scale before." 

"It is possible, and I believe documented in several sources at the Council of Physicians" she sounded outwardly non-plussed, but he thought he detected a note of pride in her voice, "The effect is remarkable, but hardly miraculous." 

"Sub-Commander I really think that a thorough examination of …"

"Am I fit for duty?" she interrupted. 

"Certainly, however…" he wanted to analyse, he wanted to measure and record. She was having nothing of it. 

"Thank you Doctor," she turned on her heel and began to stride out of sickbay. Out of desperation and a certain sense of duty he dug at a nerve he wasn't sure she knew that she had. 

"You initiated telepathic contact with the Captain didn't you? You realise you could have infected him with the disease."

That froze her in her tracks, but his information had no appreciable effect on the Captain, which surprised the Doctor; Archer had no real way of knowing the trauma that accompanied the disease. Even if he had consented to the contact, he was in ignorance of the real risk to his health she'd taken. 

"You have no way to prove that" she paused halfway to the door and turned, "And I'm not that careless." 

"And you" he said forcefully, "have no way to control it" 

"I beg to differ," she said coldly, "Now if you'll excuse me" 

"I will be examining the Captain" he projected his voice slightly louder, even though he was quite familiar with the range and sensitivity of Vulcan hearing. 

"As you wish" if she had been wearing a traditional robe it would have swished angrily about her ankles. 

"Sorry about that Doc," the Captain sounded more amused than contrite, "She gets kinda… touchy about it."  

"Captain Archer, you have no concept of the dangers that this rampant telepathic interaction could lead to. If this syndrome can wreck havoc with Vulcan self-control, I don't even want to think about what it can to a non-Vulcan psyche." As the Doctor spoke, he switched the scans from Vulcan to human biology, and began scanning. 

"Actually Doc, I have a pretty good idea, of what I'm getting into" Jon remembered the state T'Pol had been in before they'd started working. Pa'Nar syndrome was big, ugly, nasty, and scary, but he was not afraid for himself. 

"I don't suppose there is any way I could convince you to stop this activity immediately," he said, sounding more and more like a very snappish mother hen. 

"None whatsoever" 

"Hmm," he examined his scans closely, and from his expression of dour resignation Jon knew that there was nothing useful on the machine to report. "Well your dopamine and seratonin levels are elevated, and there seems to be an inordinate amount of mid-brain activity, but other than that everything seems normal." 

As Jon slid off the bio-bed, the Doctor sighed and turned to him, "I really must re-iterate Captain: this is highly dangerous."

"She came to me for help, Doc. You know Vulcans pretty well; I think you understand how rare that is. I could no more refuse to help her than fly" 

"From a personal perspective, I understand completely," Phlox sighed, "Perhaps that's why I need you to understand the risks. She is stable, for the moment, but…She. Is. Not. Cured. Every time you touch minds, there is an exceedingly high danger of transmission. I can do nothing to stop it." 

"I understand Doc," he slid off the biobed, "I'm not going to stop." 

"As physician I cannot condone that" the Doc sighed, "But as a man, I understand why you have to" 

"Thanks" 

When he got back to the bridge, she'd regressed almost completely back to her shell of Vulcan indifference. He knew now that it was as façade, another form of mental shielding. The altercation between her and the doctor had really distressed T'Pol. She was only truly expressionless if something disturbed her. 

That evening he waited in her quarters for her. It probably wasn't the best thing for him to do, she did value her privacy, but he also didn't want to be seen lingering outside her quarters, she wouldn't appreciate being the butt of speculation. 

He had a long wait. Most of her days, or rather most of the three straight shifts she always seemed to work, she'd been spending on the Orion ship, repaired, refurbished and now following Enterprise. She was trying, with the help of the former slave girl, to crack into the navigation computer to track this 'depot' that they believed Chief Spencer ended up. 

The Betazed cargo ship, amid declarations of gratitude, returned to their homeport. They had several crewmembers in desperate need of what T'Pol called Mind Healing. They had made every promise of telling their government about Enterprise's 'bravery and courage' but Archer wasn't about to count ships to assist in the capture of the Orion base. 

He was almost asleep on her desk when she showed up at her quarters it was that late. He was groggy enough to miss the first soft noise of surprise, but when she upped the illumination, she accosted him with a very questioning eyebrow. 

"I assume there's a reason you're here" she walked over to her bed and gently sat, then lay flat on the neatly made blankets. It was Vulcan equivalent of flopping face down in exhaustion. 

"What if just wanted to see you?"  He quipped, smiling softly. 

She toed her boots off and delicately took off the socks underneath with her toes, not moving her body at all. She had spent the first thirty years of her life barefoot or very thinly sandaled; nearly five decades later it still felt more natural to bare her toes to the air. Her fingers worked the throatlatch of her uniform, until it released the tight hold on her neck. 

"Long day?" 

"Nearly twenty of twenty four hours," she replied, closing her eyes, she focused on her body, deliberately relaxing the muscle groups that had tensed up during the day. It eased her headache and made the slight pain between her shoulders go away. Jon got up and began moving around the room, but she ignored it, he was a restless man, always in motion. 

"Here" 

She opened her eyes, directly in front of her face was a pile of fabric, Jon was holding out her nightclothes: his undershirt, and a pair of loose satin pants. He was smiling; tilting his head in what she understood was a sympathetic gesture. 

"Thank you" completely non-plussed she began to change, Jon immediately turned his back. She arched a brow at this, he'd seen her in less than her nightclothes in decon, but he was nevertheless giving her privacy now. It was gentlemanly. 

As he turned his back, she couldn't help but notice the solid, strong planes of his shoulders. Her 'accidental' transformation of his clothing into a Vulcan warrior's kilt had led to a number of disturbing observations. Several times she'd found her eyes wandering the planes and slopes of his body as he moved. She'd caught herself before anyone had noticed her…undue attention, but right now it seemed a little more proper.

Of its own accord, her hand reached out for the breadth of his shoulders, much different than most of the men of her aquaintance. Vulcan males, as a rule, were long, lean, and rangy.  Jon was anything but; broad shouldered, wide across the stomach and chest, with relatively short, but solid legs. He turned at her touch. 

"T'Pol I'm…." his voice trailed off as her hand, still on his shoulder wandered down the front plane of his chest. She tilted her head at him, conveying both keen interest and contained amusement. It wandered for a few more seconds, exploring what until now she'd only seen. The muscle was warm and firm under her hand. 

"I'm sorry," she pulled her hand back, but he caught it and brought it to his lips.

"Don't be" he used her hand to tug her, unresistingly into a tight embrace. It had been a long hard week for both of them: the abduction of Chief Spencer, the 'incident' with the pirates, and the collapse and re-building of T'Pol's metal barriers. It was a relief to just hold and be held.

 T'Pol noticed, somewhat to her alarm that physical contact with Jon let his thoughts pass through her shielding as though it wasn't there. It was vaguely disconcerting, but she realised that he'd had so much to do with their construction that they didn't recognise him as a foreign presence. 

These things should not be happening. He shouldn't be able, let alone willing, to help her with her control. His presence should be irritating, not welcoming. She was Vulcan he was human, this relationship was …illogical.

"Nothing wrong with a healthy amount of illogicalness" he murmured into her neck.

"Clarify," she questioned, pulling back and looking at him with 'the eyebrow'.

"Like this" she had a split second warning before he set his teeth on her neck. Even her Vulcan mind had no time to act in response and after a few seconds, she had no desire to. It was darkly thrilling, as the forbidden fruit, and T'Pol knew now a personal definition of the word erotic. He pinioned her against the bed frame before he stopped and gasped, "I don't have this much control, T'Pol." 

He was giving her an out, and for a moment, a very long moment, she turned the thought over in her mind. It was the most temptation she had ever experienced at one time, in her entire life. Nevertheless, she was Vulcan: temptation she could endure.

She wasn't however, about to deny herself the comfort of his presence, even as he offered T'Pol her privacy, she pulled back the sheets of her narrow bunk. As she was drifting off to sleep, her back pressed against Jon's chest, he chuckled slightly in her ear. She never moved, but gave him a mental query equivalent to 'the eyebrow'. 

"I should have known, you're such a little spitfire on the bridge, but I never would have guessed that such a sensualist was under that Vulcan exterior." He spoke softly into her ear, sending slight shivers down her back. 

"I am not a sensualist."

"Really?" he made a show of surprise, "Satin pyjamas, silk sheets, chenille blanket, down pillow…." 

"It is illogical to be uncomfortable if the amenities are available." 

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," he kissed the tip of her pointed ear and chuckled again, "if it makes you feel better." 

She decided, judiciously, not to respond.     


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

_*NOTE: I do humbly apologise for letting it go so long without update. The past few weeks have been very, very busy. Truthfully, I have not had time to watch the tape of _Enterprise___ this week, if that tells you anything. I do hope you enjoy it. Special thanks to all my reviewers, especially Karen Murray, Mana, and AL Martinez. Your reviews make my day, they really do.     _

Malcolm loved the precision of explosives. There was certain symmetry, a balance, to the careful release of energy in a contained blast that was almost poetic in a way, the molecules set free from restraint, charged with their own energy. 

 A grenade, a particle weapon, and even to a certain extent, a plasma weapon was an extension of this carefully controlled release. If there was one thing, above all else that Malcolm admired most about Vulcan's it was the sleek, slick, efficient design of their mechanics. Even a grenade had certain elegance to it in the hands of a Vulcan. 

He stood captivated by the schematics that T'Pol provided him to go over. She was with him, in the armoury, the only two allowed in the armoury. For a slight, brief, very un-official period of time she was allowing him to make certain 'modifications' to Enterprise's compliment of phase rifles to facilitate the hostile takeover of the Orion base. 

Malcolm liked hostile takeovers. 

For security's sake she'd selectively translated the text that he was hungrily reading, most of it was still in Vulcan, it was a select few sections that he gravitated to, the particle density, the guidance laser, the power units. 

"This is incredible" he breathed, hoping against hope that she would go ahead and translate the rest of the data disc that contained the 'classified' information. He thirsted for that knowledge like a man alone in a desert. 

"It was a long time ago, Lieutenant, but at one point we were exceedingly good at killing each other."  She moved around to the rifles, beginning to take the first one apart, "The design hasn't changed for millennia, and as you are wont to say, it's all in the design" 

"Bloody brilliant"

"I'd like to think anything my people do is done well" she replied, "Precision is a matter of honour" 

"Incredible," he picked up the pieces of the phase rifles looking at them in a whole new light, "Absolutely incredible"   

As they worked, Malcolm got the sneaking suspicion that she was a lot more expert then she previously let on. Her hands moved with a familiarity and ease that, in his mind, came only with experience. 

"What exactly did you do at the Vulcan Ministry of Security, Sub-Commander?" It came out somewhat abruptly, and he flushed, it had sounded like more of a demand than simple curiosity. 

"You know I can't tell you that, Mr. Reed," she said absently, putting down the phase rifle she had just completed modifying, "But I am curious what prompted the question?" 

He flushed again, feeling a traitorous bit of colour building under his skin, "I… I just noticed that you're awfully familiar with these weapons, indeed a lot of weapons, you have this classified materials having to do with Vulcan armaments … it just doesn't seem to fit with training of a Vulcan scientist."

"Science was something of an afterthought in my career, though I am, in all modesty, a proficient practitioner. Despite my people's belief in the illogic of violence we have realised* that they who do not live by the sword can still die by it." She finished the phase rife she'd been re-assembling.

"Logical" he said wryly. 

"Indeed," she paused before starting on the last rifle, "So although we abhor violence, someone has to make the sacrifice and kill to protect our people. The duty fell upon a unique cadre of people in Vulcan society, those that have been for millennia beyond counting, the clan guardians, the warriors of the old houses." 

"Your family?" 

"Since before recorded history" 

He smiled a bit in recollection, "Then I guess we have something in common, the Reed's have been Navy men for generations." 

"You're not in the Navy," she observed.

"And you're a science officer" he shot back, "Funny how things turn out that way isn't it?"

"Yes" she agreed absently. 

Malcolm fiddled with the rifles a bit more, before joining her at the table with the grenades. The stun grenades, the not-so-stun grenades, plasma grenades, shrapnel grenades… there was so much violence inherent in the whole process. For a long moment, he understood the Vulcan ethos: I am Vulcan, bred to peace.

He sighed, beginning the slow process of modifying the grenades. Higher yield, bigger blast radius, more deaths for every shot. A soldiers dream, but Malcolm never liked being a soldier. 

"T'Pol can I ask you a question?"

"As you wish"

"What are the odds?"

"Of?"

"Of us finding Chief Spencer, of us freeing the slaves, of us making it out of that compound with our heads on our shoulders?" 

"Do want a statistic or my opinion?"

"Both, if you don't mind" 

"Statistically: slim"

"Statistically slim," he muttered, "Wonderful"

"If I may," she walked over to look him directly in the eye, "It has been my observation that humanity lives their lives with much hope. Have faith, Malcolm, things will be well. This crew, particularly when incensed, has a tendency to overcome statistical obstacles. I would rate our chance of success to be fairly high." 

"Aye Sub-Commander" he could not help a slight sigh of frustration, ever since they had been on the mission they'd been shot at, chased, and abducted by every Tom Dick and Harry in the galaxy. As the man responsible for the safety of the ship, it made him nervous and just a bit edgy. 

"I assume you can handle this Lieutenant" T'Pol's voice broke his momentary reverie. Silhouetted; she looked as though something just slightly off. It was nothing he could quantify, but she did seem a little upset, well for a Vulcan anyhow.

"Certainly," he nodded to the data disc, "After all you provided the hard part." 

"Indeed" she took up the disc, and stored it in a clear plastic container. "If there's nothing else?" 

"Good night Sub-Commander" he frowned a bit, then quickly picked up the pace of the modifications. As he finished, he paused, something about T'Pol's attitude didn't quite sit right with him. It was uncharacteristic for her to leave her work unfinished. 

It didn't take much urging for him to go up the extra few decks to visit the bridge before heading to his dinner. As he stepped out onto the real working area of the ship, he smiled, just a bit. She was a proud ship, a good one, and the latent Navy man in him took his own measure of pride in his place aboard. 

"Sir?" 

"Malcolm" the big man acknowledged his presence with a casual wave, not exactly standard protocol, but the Briton had learned not to expect it from his Captain. 

"A moment, sir" 

"Sure" the Captain sounded vaguely surprised, but led the way to his ready room without complaint. "What can I do for you Malcolm?" 

"Not me, as it were, rather I just had a bit of a talk with the Sub-Commander." 

"The Sub-Commander?" that got his attention, if he wasn't being professional, Malcolm would have smiled. A blind man could see how much the Captain felt for his first officer. 

"She seemed a bit… agitated" 

"Agitated?"

"She left the armoury with work unfinished; I think that counts as agitated"  

"Anything in particular?" 

"Not really sir I just thought… well I thought you might want to know" 

"Yes. Thank you Malcolm" When they walked back onto the bridge and the Captain went immediately for the turbo lift, Malcolm had a good idea where the Captain was headed. 

The mess hall was a relatively quiet affair, he settled at his customary table with Hoshi, Travis, and Ensign Jackson. They gave him some subdued greetings. It was clear everyone's mind was on the raid planned for tomorrow morning. 

"So is everything ready sir?" no one had known the real reason why Malcolm and T'Pol had insisted on staying to 'fix' some of the rifles. 

"Just finished up, we're good to go" 

"Do you think they'll suspect anything?"  Hoshi asked, it was she, Chief Jones, and Crewman Randall who'd been working almost non-stop to crack the gate codes for the Orion base, with any luck the bay doors would open to accept the Orion fighter without question, thus landing the raiding party without suspicion. 

Enterprise was going to remain in the background, for a while at least, hiding in the shadow of a gas giant's largest moon. The team would signal, and then the ship was to come out, spitting red phase blasts and torpedoes, hopefully knocking out several systems, like internal power, in the process.

The slavers wouldn't know what hit them until the slaves, freed and armed, followed the Enterprise crew into the heart of the station. With any luck they'd have numbers on their side, if not accuracy or training. Malcolm was willing to put his solid British pound on the slaves. Even the meekest dog will bite if provoked, and as he thought it, the slavers had been building enough provocation for this to be their last. 

"Hey" 

It was Trip, or Commander Tucker, rather. The two men had developed a very manly sort of friendship, beating each other up in the gym and indulging in shore leave together. He was pleased to see him, but also surprised, Trip usually had dinner with the Captain and T'Pol in the Captain's Mess. 

"So the Commander has come down from on high to mingle with the commoners huh?" Leave it to Hoshi to put things bluntly. The cheeky Asian let her eyes sparkle at Trip and Malcolm felt a slight twinge.  

"Don't know were Jon ended up, last I heard he was still pluggin' away on th' bridge. But m'belly started protestin' a long time ago, so here I am. Besides, who wouldn't want the comp'ny of ol' Trip the magnificent?" He puffed out his chest to an absurd size and everyone had a good chuckle at his expense. 

"I don't know about Trip the magnificent, but I sure could use Trip the belly dancer" one the female crew members catcalled from a few tables away. 

"I live to serve" He said jovially and Malcolm felt another tinge, that Trip could be so easy and that social situations, for the taciturn Brit, were anything but easy. 

The door slid open after a few minutes and out popped the Captain and the Sub-Commander. It was something so common, seeing them together, that Malcolm barely registered their presence until he heard Trip's mild expletive. 

"Son of a bitch" Malcolm looked, but didn't see any cause for it. 

"Trip, Malcolm" The Captain walked over to their table and greeted everyone. T'Pol ever close at his side.

"Ensigns" T'Pol's voice actually sounded deeper than the Captain's did. It was pitched low and clear, but surprisingly gentle.  

 She had a slight frown, and again Malcolm thought that something was just a hair out of whack. He scented the faint smell of sulphur and smoke. She had been meditating. Good, if anything were bothering her mediation and the Captains Mess would do wonders. He worried some times, she pushed herself too hard, but then he did recognise some of the same drive in him, in her. 

Trip's whole attitude had changed, instead of the charming, jovial man; there was an angry looking, suspicious human being. His arms crossed belligerently over his chest and he pushed back from the table. 

There was a long, cold silence. For a moment, everyone in the mess had just stopped. Forks stilled, plates clattered to a halt, and drinks paused midway.  

T'Pol finally murmured something low and sibilant, she turned, and Malcolm saw what had apparently been enough to set Trip off. Archer's hand was very neatly and discreetly on the small of her back. He stood a moment longer, and then joined her in the privacy of the Captains Mess. 

There was another long silence, and then, surprisingly, it was Hoshi, the young, shy, soft-spoken, communications officer who showed everyone up. 

"Well I hope you're happy, _Commander_. I'm so thrilled that our _Chief Engineer_ has such respect for our _First Officer_. To the point of not speaking in a civil fashion, even. God damn it, _Commander, what the hell is your problem?"  Her dishes clanked and a murmur of assent followed her words. _

Malcolm was not the only person who had not thought Hoshi had it in her, Trip sat slack jawed, not quite comprehending.

"I…."

"They're together Trip" Malcolm sad softly, "Everyone can see it but you. Give the woman a bloody break, and as for the Captain… it's his life Trip, he's a grown man. If this is a decision he wants to make you'd be a fool to put your friendship on the rocks over it" 

The soft noises, the clanking of silver and china, and the steady stream of conversation returned slowly to the mess hall. A few still stole glances over at Trip, his meal forgotten, who slumped silently, broodingly in his chair. Together Malcolm and Hoshi left the mess hall, Ensign Jackson took a few moments longer, he was having chef's special peach cobbler. 

After he left Trip was alone at the table. No one came to sit with him.

_*NOTE: I borrowed a phrase from the LOTR: TT movie, kudos to Peter Jackson, Tolkien, or whatever screenwriter wrote it, but I felt it described the situation aptly. _


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Commander Charles Tucker III, with advanced degrees in Warp Field theory and a registered professional engineer, the first and only choice for Chief Engineer of the first warp five Earth vessel, was standing in the cargo bay of 'his' ship watching a Vulcan put on her boots. 

She was precise, every loop, every steel shank, every deft turn of her finger was neat and accurate. Just like her. Just like her work. Just like her personality. Just like her people. 

He was a proud man, from proud ancestors; he didn't like admitting himself in the wrong. Trip wasn't entirely sure he _was in the wrong. She was a domineering, arrogant, prissy know it all. The trouble was people said the same things about him sometimes too.  _

Maybe that was it, he mulled it over in his mind. They were too much alike. This was supposed to be his crowning glory. It was his name supposed to be in the record books: Archer and Tucker, like Lewis and Clark, or Aldrin and Armstrong. Nevertheless, a tiny little scientist with big pointy ears had squeezed neatly into 'his' spot. She could command, she could obey, she could be solidly stubborn, or be pliantly flexible. She was everything he could be and she did it with class. 

It was the look on Hoshi's face when she upbraided him in full view in the mess hall, which finally pushed him to this point. He'd always had a sweet spot for Jon's little linguist. He never wanted to see that look of absolute disgust directed in his way ever again. He knew it, he knew he was being unfair, obstinate, and unreasonable. Jon told him, the crew showed him, and even his own conscience whispered to him that he was in the wrong. But someone so sweet and so genuine, like Hoshi, stooping to the level to which he'd succumbed was enough. 

Trip wanted it to be before the mission. He wanted it out of the way. He saw what no one could miss as they briefed for the incursion. Not everyone was coming out of this unscathed. It was so emotional and yet not, when Jon formally put T'Pol in command. He was the Captain, she, the first officer, they would do what they had to do. 

That didn't mean either of them had to like it.

"May I help you Mr. Tucker?" she was prim, proper, and entirely unemotional.

 T'Pol had boots laced, her jumpsuit neatly tucked, and the 'scattergun' or old-fashioned double-barrelled automatic shotgun slung across her back. She had a holstered pistol, a knife, a bandolier of grenades. 

She looked like a five-year-old playing commando in the front lawn.

He had the same equipment, minus the shotgun, as did Malcolm, as did the rest of the six-man armoury team. He offered her the little tub of greasepaint to cover her face she declined. 

They stood there looking at each other. 

"Mr. Tucker?" 

"Yeah," he felt awkward and was certain it was only going to get worse, "I just wanted to … clear some things up before we got out there." 

She raised the 'sceptical' eyebrow, "By all means" 

"I…, um, well that is…I'm sorry" the last he mumbled so softly and so garbled, that suspected even Vulcan hearing mightn't pick it up. 

"For…" drat she did hear it. 

"For bein' such a … schmuck" 

He could see 'schmuck' filed and catalogued to get looked up later. Bloody woman had a mind like a computer. 

"Apology accepted Commander."  

That was all? 'Apology accepted commander' was all she had to say. He was a bit disturbed at the ease with which she accepted his apology. He tried to steal a surreptitious look at her but she was subtlety as he was not. His eyes met a surprisingly warm set of Vulcan hazels. 

"Mr. Tucker I understand your concerns," he voice dropped a bit in pitch, and she looked away, "I will say this but once, but it will be said, I… care for him quite deeply. I know he is your friend, I respect that. You need not fear for him from me."   

The shock and surprise of her admission must have shown on his face, because she arched her brow interrogatively. Then, seemingly puzzled, she added, "Does that allay your concerns Mr. Tucker?"

He nodded, slowly, "I… I guess I…" 

"You're his friend. I believe I understand this… relationship. Friendship is a very, very human trait. I'm becoming more familiar with it though" 

"Vulcans don't have friends?" 

"We have colleagues, acquaintances, family, mates, but…I do not know of a relationship in Vulcan society that quite corresponds to human friendship." 

"Well then…I guess, Why don't we give it a go then" At her look of sudden alarm and surprise he amended quickly, "Friendship." 

"Perhaps," she acceded.  

"Well it kinda looks as though we're gonna be stuck together for a long time, Sub-Commander, it's not logical to be at each other's throats all the time" he tried for a tail end of a joke, but as usual, in the presence of the almighty Vulcan joke nullifying zone, it fell a little flat. 

"As you wish"   

Seeing that it was as far as he was going to get, he turned to leave the cargo bay. In the hallway he ran into Jon, clearly there for a much more 'personal' goodbye for his First Officer. It took surprisingly little self-control to swallow the snide comment. 

Before the door slammed closed on the couple, he heard an indistinct male voice, then quite clearly, in T'Pol's normal hauteur, "Don't worry, I believe Mr. Tucker and I have come to an understanding." 

The invasion of the Orion base went off with surprisingly few hitches. The bay doors accepted Hoshi's code without a murmur of protest. Once they set down inside the oversized shuttle bay, Malcolm made short work of the main power with the Orion ship's weaponry. 

They piled out into the pitch black interior of the shuttle bay, six armoury officers, Malcolm, Trip, the Orion woman, and T'Pol. The Orion led them to the 'slave bay'. 

It was incredible. Every picture Trip had ever seen of old style 'maximum security' Alcatraz type prisons paled in imitation. The walls were covered in cells, with long thick bars; some of them had a mesh covering, at one point electrified. 

There were noses, children crying, adults groaning in pain, small whispers of fear, the prisoners general furtive hum, loud enough to be heard, low enough to not attract attention. 

To say it was pitch black was an understatement, until T'Pol hit a breaker on the island in the middle of the bay, it cast a single shallow illumination from one crookedly hung spotlight on the crown of the guard tower. 

"Wani ra daifu ro T'Khasi" She was standing in the light, the thin pale circle, the noise stopped. She repeated herself, "Wani ra daifu ro T'Khasi"

A chant began, low and soft at first, but then gradually gaining tempo and volume, it sounded to Trip's uneducated ear, "Tuk Assi" 

"What are they saying Sub-Commander?" thankfully it was Malcolm's nervous query; Trip didn't have to look like even more of an idiot today. 

"They are chanting T'Khasi" she raised her hands for silence.

"Well what does that mean?" he asked again, sounding just a vague bit irritated.

 "It means 'Vulcan', in Vulcan." 

T'Pol drew up to her full height, in the silence, and then began to speak. The little UT Hoshi gave them kicked in after a few seconds. She was instructing them, telling all the able bodied that the cells weren't locked. That they had weapons, medicine, and food. That they could fight back against their oppressors. 

One by one, and slowly, too damn slowly for Trip's taste, they started to trickle down the face of the cells. Malcolm had an assembly line set up. Every one who wanted one got a phase rifle or a pistol and several grenades. There was one group who came down last, coming silently, then all stepping dramatically into the light at once. 

They were tall, underfed, but still massive, with two very slender antennae and blue, blue skin. Andorians. They looked skeptically at T'Pol, but hefted the weapons with alacrity. Trip was nervous; the relationship between Vulcans and Andorians wasn't exactly peachy. 

"You would put at your back with a weapon, Vulcan?" one of the female Andorians sneered, hefting the phase rifle alarmingly. 

"I am called T'Pol," the sub-commander replied evenly, "And what reason would I have to not allow you the privilege of dispatching the Orion's of your own free will?"

"You Vulcan…." The word that followed, the translator didn't catch, but Trip was sure it wasn't complimentary. 

  "You… pigs!" the Orion women, the one they'd rescued and the others, slave girls eager to revenge themselves against their former masters, shouted and brandished their Starfleet weapons. "They bring us food, weapons, medicine!! And all the gratitude you have to show for it!! We should just leave you here for the masters to find!!" 

Several of the other agreed, a maniac look in their eyes, the people, who'd been at the doors, ready to leave now began to congregate about the Starfleet crew and the Andorians, muttering darkly. 

"Any more of this we'll have a riot on our hands" muttered Malcolm and Trip wasn't far off in agreeing. The soon-to-be ex-slaves were starting to get a desperate kind of energy, the kind of energy that turned a peaceable group of people into a violent, hungry mob. 

   "Peace" T'Pol set down her own weapon, trying to restore a semblance of order to the crowd, "I will have peace. Anyone how wishes to fight, may of course do so, otherwise…" 

A massive explosion, arced through the almost cavernous slave hold, presumably from the Orions, cut off her speech suddenly. It detonated in a bright flash of painfully white light, their eyes having accustomed to the near pitch black of the powerless base.

T'Pol dropped like a stone. The whole concert of slaves, Andorians, Orions, and Starfleet started shooting. Suddenly it wasn't dark in the slave hold anymore, angry hissing plasma bursts and bright red phase fire lit up the bulkheads. 

A sudden deep bass, the resounding crescendo of grenades, made Trip's chest thrum in concert. He hit the deck coughing suddenly at the violent impact. All around him people were shouting, there were screeches of pain, the meaty 'thunks' of a plasma bolt driving home.  

Malcolm was still standing, plugging away doggedly at the enemy. He tried in vain to shout orders, commands, but no one was listening. The Orions were everywhere, in the cellblock, at the doorways, sniping from above and cutting in from the back. 

He had one thought: get to T'Pol. 

Jon would never forgive himself if, now that they'd just found each other, she was killed in something as silly as a prison riot, which is what this was beginning to amount to. Trip was his friend. It was his job to make sure she came home. 

He crawled, over the bodies of wounded and dying slaves; they'd managed a kind of protective ring. Everyone had clustered around the guard's island. It wasn't exactly the best tactic, the weak light from the hanging spot illuminated them far too well, but Malcolm had somehow managed a kind of organization. 

They were firing volleys, alternating rounds. It was enough to keep the slaver's heads down. Then on command, they volleyed grenades in the general direction of the last set of slaver plasma bursts. Grenades weren't exactly precision weapons, they just needed a general area. 

T'Pol was alive when Trip crawled over, and as he touched her arm, she grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, just this side of breaking it. 

"It's me," he gasped, wincing, "Let go, let go, it's me"

"Mr. Tucker," she sounded as calm and cool as if she were ordering in a restaurant. "How has the situation developed?" 

"Developed! They're blasting the hell out of us! Can't you…" then he got a closer look, her face was burnt and swollen, her eyes were open, but blurred and unseeing, as if a film had dropped over the lid.

"No, Mr. Tucker I cannot." She arched her head for a minute, and he realized she was trying to triangulate by sounds. "How far are we from the pill box?"

"Coupla feet. Why?"

"I need to get in" T'Pol's hand went from his wrist to his forearm, "You'll need to be my eyes." 

He swallowed back an outraged shout. Clearly she had a purpose in mind. It was only logical. He grabbed the heavy shotgun, shucked the pump to chamber the rounds 

"Grab my pocket" she snugged her fingers in the thigh pocket of his jumpsuit, and he half crawled, half scooted over to the very corner of the pillbox, then whirled around the corner, gun leveled. No one was there; he relaxed, lowering the muzzle incrementally.

Suddenly on of the Orion slavers, dressed in loose fitting leathers and heavy boots, rounded the corner. They stared at each other for a split second, shock written on both faces, Trip fired first. 

The gun in his arms exploded, the Orion dropped like a stone. The recoil knocked him off his knees, painfully onto his butt. When the bright light of the incendiary faded, leaving a white smear across his vision he hissed at T'Pol, "What the hell was that?" 

"My shotgun Mr. Tucker" She moved past him, feeling her way to the door, trying to locate a keypad. Trip got up, wincing at the bruise that the recoil left him, and helped her fingers find the panel. 

"It's welded," he offered, when she scratched at the solidly attached panel. She said something, not very softly, in Vulcan. She reached back grasping blindly and he offered her his hand. She slid down the arm to the shotgun, still warm from the last shot. 

"Wait a sec, you can't see, ain't no way I'm lettin' you shoot this thing." he pulled it back out of her grasp. "Jus' tell me what ya need shot." 

"The doors have a locking mechanism in three places" She moved her hands, marking out the top, middle and bottoms of the solid door. "Every twenty six inches"  

"Alright, clear out," he aimed the shotgun, but she caught his forearm as he moved her out of the way. 

"You need to fire both barrels" she took the gun from his hands and with surprising capability, shucked and chambered the next rounds of shells. It was just in time, another Orion rounded the corner, and she must have heard because she brought the gun up to her shoulder and fired. 

Thunder exploded again, he could see the flash and the expanded cloud of lead shot, the Orion's, because he could now see there were two of them, dropped like flies. She shucked the chambers again and dropped, dragging her hand against his leg. He hit the ground just in time, angry green streamers shot over where his head would have been.      

T'Pol, who's hand was still on his forearm, tugged herself over his prone form. She slapped a square of something over the corner of the door then rolled away. There was a slight flash, and then the door made a deep clicking noise. 

She pushed at the door with her feet, it slid open marginally and she slipped in a slender space he didn't think was physically possible. The last thing he remembered seeing was the slim Vulcan straining against the door to shut it behind her. 


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

"Jeezzzz…." Trip groaned as he slowly came back to consciousness, "You get the number of the shuttlepod that ran me over?" 

"Easy Mr. Tucker, you've had quite a shock" the warm, cheerful voice of Doctor Phlox was at his said. He was still seated on the deck plates of the Orion facility, but milling around were Starfleet personnel. They'd won the fight, apparently.  

"What happened?" Trip tired to shake out some of the cobwebs.

"You were engaged with the Orion pirates, Mr. Tucker…." Phlox began to explain. Trip sat up further, a massive headache forming behind his eyes. 

"I know that," Trip cut him off irritatedly, "How'd y'all get here?" 

"The Sub-Commander called" he said matter of factly. 

Mechanically Trip looked around for the Sub-Commander. He found her, well, some of her, the top half currently enveloped in the bear-like grasp of Captain Archer. Only her feet and forearms were visible from his perspective, as she had him in a tight hug in return. 

"What the hell?" he wondered aloud. "How she manage that?" 

"Hypothetically, Commander, if you were the administrator of this kind of a…. facility. What do you think is the most pressing concern you would have?" the good Doc sat back on his haunches, easily limber. 

"Does that have anything to do with…"

"Humour me, Mr. Tucker, please" 

"Alright" he thought for a second, "Escape I guess." 

"Providing that an individual escape is difficult and unlikely," he amended, scanning the Commander for internal injuries. 

"Some kinda group demonstration… a riot, maybe." 

"Excellent" Phlox exclaimed, putting away his scanner and taking out a hypo, "And what Commander Tucker, would you do to quell a riot, given that you want all of the, ah, merchandise in one piece?" 

"I dunno, riot gear, tear gas… waitaminute… did she gas us?" he asked, incredulous. 

"Exactly!" Phlox looked as pleased as if it was he who'd made the deduction, "There was a riot control system in place in the pillbox, with an emergency breaker. She tripped the breaker and everyone in the bay got a full dose. Somehow the Sub-Commander managed to find a comm device and contact the ship." 

"Gotcha" Trip stood all the way back up, noticing that T'Pol and Jon were still locked together in a tight embrace. The crew, or at least those who'd been revived, were studiously ignoring them. 

"Commander?" it was a timid question, but a welcome voice. 

"Hoshi?" 

"How you feeling?" she asked, as he turned around to face the petite Asian. 

"Hunnert percent better now" he grinned. 

She gave him very wry look, "Right. Anyhow … I've been trying to get through some of the Orion database, well what I can translate of it. I can't find any mention of Chief Spencer. But they haven't updated anything in about a week, so it's still very likely that he's… somewhere" 

"Have you asked around, maybe someone saw him?"

"There are over six hundred people listed here, and most of them are still unconscious." She looked away for a minute, and then said softly, "Another thing… I, I want to apologise for what I said last night. I lost my temper, I shouldn't have…"

"No, no" he interrupted, "You were right, I shoulda…" He cut off at Hoshi's gesture, turning around to find Jon and T'Pol slowly making their way towards them. Slowly because T'Pol's eyes, although her face had been treated, her eyes were still blank and unseeing. 

"Sir" 

"Trip, Hoshi," he stopped, T'Pol's hand on his forearm to guide her. "How you feeling Commander?"

"Little groggy, got a wicked headache." 

"If I may, Captain," Phlox turned from where he was treating another crewmember for exposure to the gas, "He may be conscious, but the effect is different based on the individual bio-chemistry, I suggest at least twenty four hours for the drug to be completely rid of the system, just to be on the safe side." 

"Sounds about right." Jon unwound T'Pol's arm from his own, "Trip you mind…" 

"Sure," He took T'Pol's hand, letting her slide it up to his elbow. 

"Get some food and rest, both of you, and check with Malcolm's team. Make sure they get cleaned up as well." 

"Aye sir" he walked T'Pol over to the shuttle carefully, going out of his way to avoid obstructions and little half steps that might throw her off balance. It wouldn't do to compromise that impregnable Vulcan dignity. 

He chuckled a little at himself, worrying about a Vulcan's dignity. Jon was right, damn him, it was easy to care for her. Once you got past the Vulcan bit. He worried too; both Jon and the Doctor had deliberately ignored the fact that T'Pol was still sightless. In Trip's estimation that was never a good sign. 

Decon went remarkably without incident, at least to the Sub-Commander's perspective. She'd somehow expected Mr. Tucker to be more… aggravating. He'd been nothing but helpful and solicitous since escorting her from the Captain's arm. Even with the necessary application of the decon gel; he'd helped her without the usual amount of apprehensive tension she'd come to expect from him. 

The scent of her quarters was a familiar and welcome sensation. Her mind was running itself in circles, dangerously pre-occupied with her incipient blindness. The first gentle rush of the air from within her private space was a gentle relief. 

    "You gonna be ok here?" asked the Commander, careful not to be condescending, but still concerned for her well-being. 

"They are my quarters Mr. Tucker," she responded, somewhat more harshly than she intended. Hearing a slight intake of breath and the sharp sting of hurt, she quickly soothed, "I do appreciate your… help" 

A slight exhalation, this one in consistent with the formation of a smile, "Anytime"  

Alone at last, T'Pol tried to orient herself. It was difficult. The loss of one of the primary sensory inputs was a devastating blow to her sense of well being. 

'Meditation' she thought immediately, 'I must meditate'

She began to search for the candles, cushion, and the low, Japanese table she'd acquired in San Francisco. The table was easy enough to find, she tripped over it half way to what she thought was the bed. Nursing the pain of a stubbed toe, she lowered her centre of gravity, in an effort to be more balanced. 

After striking her head on the corner of the chair she'd pulled out but neglected to push back in, T'Pol sat down on the middle of the floor and pondered her options. A memory sprang unbidden from the recesses of her thought and she let it flow through her…

_Her ancestral home was the Te-Vikram system of caves, set deeply within the __L-Langon__Mountains__. They were an arid, rough terrain, on a planet known for its arid roughness. It was, she still believed, the most beautiful place on Vulcan. _

_ Set apart by the sheer viciousness of their ancestry, infamous for their murderous priest-kings in an age where viciousness was a norm, her House was still remarkably well known for their proficiency at the martial arts, preserving the older forms from oblivion and generating constantly new and interesting ways to kill with single blows. _

_Her father was her teacher. He was one of the most decorated and knowledgeable of all the disciples of Sekhet. She learned from the cradle what many Vulcans never willingly conscienced that deep within they were all a warrior people. _

_The irony in this realisation, the irony of the martial practice, is that for the rational beings that they were, the more that was known of the intimate acts of violence, the less likely it was to be ever used. _

_One moment… one training scenario in particular involved the extinguishing of the torches that lit the deepest, darkest cave. Two, sometimes three combatants fought in the black, relying not on sight but on touch, taste, sound, and smell to navigate their gloomy domain. _

"Don't balance with your eyes, true balance comes from within" she spoke aloud, the syllables of the harsh, old Vulcan resonating off the bulkheads. She shut her eyes, it was silly, she noted, but psychologically her mind still needed the physical closing to focus. 

She heard the slight whine of servos, decks down, running the coolant lines to the main impulse reactor, the indistinct hum of conversation, crewmembers talking as they passed her door. The air recycled every few minutes, humming as the conduit opened and closed, the pressure equalising with a slight hiss. She could scent her candles, the sachets of herbs she folded in with her clothing, reminding her daily of her home.  

Taking this, she began to meditate, reaching deep within herself to calm the tempestuous storm of emotion that was threatening to overtake her. It was the first real test of her control since the disaster in the Captain's quarters.

Slowly, methodically, she reached into herself and calmed the emotions. It was like ordering a tornado to stop blowing or the waves to cease pounding the shore. But slowly, carefully, her protections held. She forced the waters to be still and the howling of the winds to stop. 

For her, it was probably the most important moment in her life since her decision to leave the Ministry of Security and pursue a career in science. It validated her control, her very identity. As the peace of the ages enveloped her, T'Pol let her eyes open.

She was filthy, the decon gel having just spread the dirt around. Using her newly found discipline she slowly, but surely navigated her cabin. She gathered her towels, soap, everything she needed. Perhaps she stayed under the pounding spray longer than strictly necessary, but to a Vulcan a water shower is an extravagance in the extreme.  

She picked soft clothing, comforting clothing, and as she combed out her hair, she realised that it was getting long. Not overly long, but beyond regulation length for a Vulcan officer. It covered the tips of her ears. She gently combed the last few droplets of water from her head. She'd get around to cutting it… eventually. 

Taking the opportunity to indulge she also picked out a scented, lightly scented, skin crème. Vulcan skin was watertight. In a less than arid environment special care needed to be taken so that it remained smooth and dry. 

It was a very personal gift from one of her colleagues at the Science Academy, T'Lar.  They'd been in several philosophy courses together, finding a measure of interest in each other's company after the strict schedule of classes was up.  It was a parting gift as she left to for Earth.

It made her feel relaxed. 

Just as the warm currents of contentment began to wash up, her stomach had to go ruin everything. She was hungry. Contemplating a visit to the mess hall, she was on the verge of calling in one of her privileges as First Officer and asking a steward to bring her a meal. 

Footsteps in the hall slowed at her door. They shuffled momentarily, a clank of metal as something knocked against another. Then the pressure of the air vent in the ceiling abruptly switched off and air rushed up from under the door, carrying with it the scent of her visitor. It was Jon. 

She went to the door and opened it, "Can I help you with that?"  She asked, holding out a hand for his burden, the scent identifying it as plomeek broth and a salad of some kind. 

"No, I got it" she stepped back and a whoosh of air rushed by her as he displaced more space in her cabin. "You're taking this remarkably well." 

"I am…"

"Vulcan, yeah I know." He set the dishes down on her desk, "How are you feeling?"

 "As well as can be expected," she searched for, found, and sat on the bed. It was easier than trying the chair. 

"I believe it" he came forward, cupping her chin, "I was scared to death" 

"I'm quite well," she responded, basking slightly in the warmth of his mind. "and relatively undamaged." 

"Relatively?"

"The damage is not permanent" it was the first thing she assessed when she tranced down. "The retinal cones are swollen, that is what is preventing my sight. It will subside."  

"You've spoken to the Doctor?" 

"I don't need to" 

"T'Pol…."  

"But if you insist…"

"I do" 

"Very well" she acquiesced quietly, his hands, still on her face dropped down to her shoulders. He sent her a clear, albeit forceful mental query. He wanted a hug, but he hadn't quite gotten the hang of forming and sending mental images. 

_Gently,_ she admonished, _I'm hardly going to miss the idea_

"Sorry" he sat next to her on the bed, "I'm not exactly used to this" 

_You're progressing very well, considering humans are not inherently telepathic,_ it was easier for her to speak telepathically, she didn't have to take the slight, but still necessary step of translating her words from Vulcan to English. 

"Thanks" he suddenly took in a breath sharply, "oh yeah, I got something for you"  

She heard him fiddling around, the scritch-scraping of a screw top thermos, and the very subtle, humans would say non-existent, aroma of plomeek broth. He sat down on the bed next to her and took her hand, "Careful it's hot" 

As she sipped, she felt him rustling around on the other side of her bed. 

"Jonathan?" 

"Just a sec…." he rustled a little more. "Alright, c'mere" 

She arched a brow but gamely followed his instructions. He reached for her arm and guided her into a cosy nest of pillows backed by his chest. He grunted with approval and snuggled her close.  She gave him a mental query. 

"You ever read Kipling?" 

"Whom?" 

"Rudyard Kipling, he was a children's author back in the day, British, well, British living in India during the Imperial era. Wrote the Jungle Book." 

"I… do not believe so" 

"Good" he snuggled more, "Now you will" 

"The Jungle Book?" she questioned. 

"Nope," he said, "My favourite, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi" 

"Jonathan I cannot read." 

"I know," he seemed pleased with himself, "I'm going to read it to you." 

She was surprised, but touched, "Very well" 

"This is the story of the great war that Rikki-Tikki-Tavi fought single handed, through the bathrooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee tenement…." He began   


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen  
  
Author's Note: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I'm sorry this is sooooo late, but my installation of Word crashed and I wasn't very happy with it. Again, may I extend kudos to my super-excellent reviewers, without whom this wouldn't  
be nearly as fun. Without further ado...  
  
"Shove 'em up. yeah, like that" Trip was taking advantage of the opportunity to instruct a Vulcan in the delicate art of adjusting eyeglasses.  
  
Apparently her retinas had been damaged in the blast. It wasn't severe, easily repaired with some basic surgery. The problem was that Doctor Phlox didn't have the equipment aboard Enterprise to perform an optometric procedure. Neither did he want to risk botching the process by using instruments not designed for the purpose.  
  
An elegant solution presented itself, actually from Mr. Tucker's corner. He suggested the use of transparisteel lenses set in a titanium frame as a temporary corrective measure. He easily had the machining equipment to adjust the concavity of the lens to compensate for her retinal imperfections.  
  
"You look like my third grade teacher" he observed, smothering laughter, "Good 'ol Miss Penny, she'd look down them spectacles of hers and man you stopped whatever you'd been up to"  
  
"Well. how do they fit Sub-Commander?" The Doctor was a little better at concealing his amusement at her expense, but not much.  
  
"They are quite satisfactory, thank you Mr. Tucker." She slid of the bio- bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirrored finish of the computer display. The frames accentuated her face nicely, but still gave a studious, somewhat severe look to her face.  
  
"You look fine," Jon took her arm reflexively, having become used to the need to escort her around, "C'mon let's go deal with your Vulcans, I'm Ambassador V'Lar is anxious to speak with us again."  
  
"We have corresponded regularly since the incident with the Mazarites, she is a remarkable person." T'Pol felt the urge to defend her old hero.  
  
"I know, but with the situation brewing with the Andorians the way it is, I really don't want to have to play referee between you two again" News of Enterprise's actions had spread quickly thanks to the Betazed cargo ships, representatives from the Vulcans, Andorians, every imaginable species were on their way at high warp to the old Orion space base.  
  
"The Ambassador was the original negotiator between the Andorians and the Vulcans in the first territorial accords, I'm sure she can handle the situation without prejudice"  
  
"I'm sure she can," Jon acknowledged, "But don't make me remind you about the ah, success of those territorial accords."  
  
"The situation is under control," T'Pol said, somewhat defensively.  
  
"And Ambassador Soval got shot to make that happen," he observed, "I'm just. not comfortable having this many species in one place."  
  
"There is little we can do but endure the company," T'Pol observed, as the walked towards the airlock, "It will be dangerous, the Andorians aren't the only species that are . less than hospitable"  
  
"Well we got ourselves into it" Jon paused as T'Pol worked the controls, "Speaking of which, how is Chief Spencer doing?"  
  
"He is alive," T'Pol observed, "The Doctor does not, however, have the rehab facilities to nurse him back to his full capacity, if indeed it can be achieved."  
  
"Damn" Jon sighed, they'd found Chief Spencer in what passed for the medical facility in the base, he'd apparently resisted. What they carted out of the med bay hadn't been pretty but the Doc had been working his magic on the Chief.  
  
"I would recommend he be removed to Earth as quickly as possible and replacement crew sought" T'Pol let the airlock doors hiss and equalise, "For his benefit as well as the crew"  
  
He understood her concern, having a visible, physical reminder of just how dangerous their job was wouldn't be good for morale, not to mention he owed the Chief the best medical care available.  
  
"Where's the closest Starfleet vessel?"  
  
"Nearly thirty light years, a science vessel, the Colombia"  
  
"Maximum warp?"  
  
"One point eight"  
  
"Think of something T'Pol" he ordered sharply, she simply nodded. The Vulcan side of the hatch slid open soundlessly.  
  
"Good afternoon Captain" the aged visage of Ambassador V'Lar greeted him warmly, "It is good to see you again"  
  
He took her prominently offered hand with a smile, "It's good to be here"  
  
"And T'Pol" they exchanged a warm, but formal greeting in Vulcan, "I'm sorry it had to be this situation that brings me back out to your vessel"  
  
"It is as well as can be expected" they turned in the narrow space and first the Ambassador, then T'Pol and finally the Captain crossed the threshold onto the Vulcan ship, Sha'Ran.  
  
As he stepped onto the Vulcan deck plates Jon's boots clunked unsteadily, like the mag-locks on an EV suit. He was hit by a sheer, hot wash of air. He gritted his teeth as he remembered; Vulcan was a high g, low oxygen environment. T'Pol showed no sign of discomfort, neither did the Ambassador, but Jon knew that if the environmental controls were set to Vulcan normal he was in for a fun day.  
  
"I have someone here, that I believe is anxious to see you again T'Pol" the Ambassador teased, or at least it sounded like it, Vulcan teasing was subtle at best, "T'Lar's brother, Skon."  
  
"Skon?" T'Pol actually slowed her pace, "I haven't been to that part of Vulcan in. many years. How has he been?"  
  
"He is my assistant Vice-Consul and a very fair job of it he does"  
  
"I would expect nothing less of the head of House Sarek" T'Pol countered, sounding very amused.  
  
"Just as he would expect nothing but trouble from a daughter of Te-Vickram, I suppose?"  
  
"Te-Vickram?" Jon was hopelessly lost, Vulcan gossip was not his forte.  
  
"You didn't know?" Ambassador V'Lar slowed, sounding somewhat surprised, "Your science officer is one of a notorious House. The Warrior Priests of Te'Vickram are infamous for their. unconventional attitudes."  
  
"The Ambassador is being kind," T'Pol said softly, "What my house is legendary for is its history of violence and illogical behaviour."  
  
"That was millennia ago," V'Lar observed, "You're more . liberal than many of the larger Houses, but that's no shame, healthy debate is the cornerstone of any democracy"  
  
Jon was fascinated by all of this, he really was, but the pace T'Pol and the Ambassador were setting was much too swift for a human in a Vulcan environment. He was beginning to feel a little light-headed and his boots felt full of lead. Fortunately enough they'd just reached a Vulcan turbolift and he had the opportunity to rest for a sec.  
  
When they'd finally reached the 'conference' room, he was glad, sweat was beginning to bead heavily on his face from the heat and his legs had gone rubbery. How the hell had T'Pol lived seventy some odd years in this, it was like a frickin' oven, not to mention the lack of air, and the high g, he was mortally afraid he'd pass out in the middle of negotiations and do even more irreparable harm to Human-Vulcan relations.  
  
"T'Pol.." The voice was deep and low, it came from a Vulcan he'd overlooked in his haste to sit down.  
  
"Skon." she acknowledged, he was tall, tall even for his people, and dark. Young too, he couldn't have been a day under sixty. He had the bulkiest physique he'd seen on a Vulcan, thought that wasn't saying much, and a heavy forehead ridge.  
  
"Greetings" he bowed, deeply, and just to her, "T'Lar also sends her salutations, I trust you've heard she's entered the temple at Gol."  
  
"Greetings," her voice was a shade too familiar for Jon's taste, "It has been far too long since I visited the house of Sarek, give your sister my warmest regards, and yes we've been in close correspondence for many years, I am. gratified to learn of her dedication."  
  
"And now that the pleasantries are over, Captain, Sub-Commander, I believe we must attend the situation at hand" Ambassador V'Lar sat as well, at the position across from Jon. T'Pol took her customary place at his side and Skon on the side opposite her, next to the Ambassador.  
  
"Once again, you seem a knack for upsetting the Vulcan High Command, Captain Archer"  
  
"Don't tell me they're going to demand we be recalled. again" he sounded more than a little frustrated and slightly out of breath.  
  
"Nothing that drastic I assure you," the melodiously deep voice of V'Lar's assistant responded, "Even the High Command wouldn't be able to garner enough support, the Orion's aren't exactly popular among our people. However the phrase, 'wild and reckless abandon' I believe was used on several instances"  
  
"They abducted a member of my crew" he gasped a little after that statement, T'Pol was distracted enough by her own thoughts not to notice, but the Ambassador took note.  
  
"Are you feeling alright Captain," she asked, noting his sweating face and pale pallor.  
  
"It's a little toasty for my comfort level Ambassador," he admitted, that was the biggest understatement he'd ever made; he was rapidly getting light headed and was starting to feel woozy. Maybe a Vulcan environment wasn't exactly his cup of tea.  
  
T'Pol turned in her chair to look him directly in the eyes, under the table her shoe hooked around his ankle, giving them the necessary physical contact. What he felt then was a curious sensation, it was like getting patted down form the inside out, it wasn't painful but it was . different.  
  
"I'm taking you to sickbay" she said in a voice that brooked no argument. He tried to voice a protest; it died at the expression in her eyes.  
  
It was fortunate too; because he needed support just to get there, his legs went to rubber as soon as he stood. T'Pol, surprisingly didn't put herself under his arm, she gestured to Skon, the bulky Vulcan actually staggered a bit under his weight.  
  
In sickbay the Vulcan doctor gave him a canister of oxygen and a mask; he looked a little perplexed, but as T'Pol explained what was going on, understanding dawned. Jon heard the words 'altitude sickness' and 'anoxia'.  
  
Jon'd reacted to the low oxygen environment just like a man who'd spent all his life at sea level, then tried to run a marathon at high elevation. It was certainly possible for a human to live in a Vulcan environment; he just wasn't acclimated to it.  
  
"Captain, on behalf of the entire crew, I apologise most profusely," V'Lar fussed over him like a mother hen, "I didn't even think about the difference between your atmosphere and ours. We usually have the opportunity to recycle the air before our guests pass out."  
  
"It's alright," he smiled, trying to reassure her, but his attention was caught by Skon, who'd taken T'Pol's arm and dragged her off to a corner of the med bay. They seemed to be in a very. heated conversation.  
  
"Here," the Doctor was a female Vulcan, older than T'Pol, with the classical Vulcan features, aquiline nose, prominent brow, and short, slanted brows. "A Tri-oxygenated compound should alleviate the symptoms until you acclimate to the environment."  
  
"Thanks" she took back the oxygen mask, and he started breathing slowly and deeply, the injection seemed to be working.  
  
"Come Captain, let us go back to the Enterprise," V'Lar stepped back while he slid off the bio bed, "It's inexcusably rude of me to not think of your comfort. Then we can discuss the Andorians and the Orion situation."  
  
"Really, that's." he trailed off as T'Pol and Skon seemingly aware of his scrutiny, broke away from their 'discussion' and left the medical bay.  
  
"Ah, yes," V'Lar's voice held a note of almost warmth, "I didn't realise the two of them were so closely acquainted, I believe.. oh, what is that human expression. yes; they have a great deal of catching up to do"  
  
"I'm sure they do," he murmured, and allowed the Ambassador to lead him back to the airlock. 


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Hoshi Sato was as tired as she'd ever been. Not physically, translating wasn't exactly a contact sport, but just mentally it was a very exacting chore. The reason why she wasn't already in the tender embrace of sleep was that her mind just wasn't letting her relax. She was too wired, there was too much pent up activity. 

The fateful meeting between the Andorians the Vulcan, the Humans, the Rigellians, and just about every other sentient, space faring species in the area happened that afternoon. Hoshi had been up to her eye-teeth making damn sure that everyone could clearly understand each other. 

Not that they argued any less, it was just now they could understand with clarity, the insults, insinuations, and outright slander. She didn't envy the Captain or the Sub-Commander. Or the various ambassadors even, Enterprise's inadvertent search for their lost crewman sparked the largest confluence of single species representatives since the first Vulcan planetary accords nearly five hundred years ago. There were thirty six different vessels in orbit, all of whom represented a species or planetary system that had prisoners to claim from the Orion base. 

The Vulcans and the Andorians were practically at blows, the Rigellians and the Centauri hadn't engaged in diplomatic interactions in nearly a hundred years, and to her nearest understanding the Axanar and the Kretassins were under orders to shoot each other on sight.    

Talk about a diplomatic moray. 

They were all there for one reason though, and Enterprise was doing her damndest to keep the peace. The only upside was that no pirate in their right mind would attack now, there were three Vulcan combat cruisers, three Andorian warships, Enterprise and a whole host of smaller, but no less powerful ships. 

The first day was over though, no one had got shot, though they'd come close, and all of the ships had found a nice, safe, stable orbit for the evening. Talks were to resume tomorrow, heaven help them, and Hoshi just wanted some tea to try and lull her mind to sleep. 

It was dark in the mess hall. There was no immediate star near the lonely asteroid the Orions had their base set upon, the faint illumination came only from the stars. She was trying to decide between chamomile and mint, when she inhaled the faint, sticky sweet, smell of pecans and sugar. 

Trying to place it, she glanced at the cabinet, but it was empty, Chef's special pecan pie went quickly. But in a semi-secluded, half hidden corner, she spotted a teacup and thermos. The hands that had a hold of the edge of the saucer were fine and delicate, and folded on the table, neatly in the centre, were a single pair of spectacles. 

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, guessing that something peculiar was keeping the Sub-Commander up after such a long day. 

"It is not going anywhere" Hoshi smiled, her sense of humour was different, but still there. "However I may not be the best company" 

"That's ok," Hoshi said lightly, "I'm tired too" 

"You should be sleeping; you require adequate rest before the negotiations tomorrow." There was a half eaten slice of pecan pie on a plate by her elbow; it was neatly bisected by the tine marks of the fork, which also lay by her elbow. 

"I didn't think pecan pie was your cup of tea, Sub-Commander."

"I'm told its 'good for the soul'" she said dryly. 

"Been talking to Trip huh?" 

"Yes" Those slender, but deceptively strong, hands caressed the rim of her teacup, almost absently. Hoshi was no expert on Vulcan body language, but it seemed to her that there was something weighing heavily on her friend's mind. 

"May I ask you a personal question?" she knew this was the accepted way, at least on Vulcan, to broach a personal topic. There was a long silence, long enough that Hoshi was on the verge of apologising for asking. 

"Yes" she replied softly, "You may" 

"How … are things?" Hoshi finished the thought weakly, the eyebrow raised a hair, but T'Pol remained silent, she picked up her fork absently, and scooped a bite of the pecan pie on the table. 

"There is someone, a male, on the Sha'Ran that I know very well. When my family disapproved of my leaving the Ministry of Security and directing my career towards the Science Directorate, he and his sister, also a…friend of mine, were very hospitable. I stayed many months in their House, while I was making my decision." 

T'Pol said this almost absently, twirling the fork in the slight starlight, as if examining it carefully, "We've remained in close contact over the years, but I was unaware of his assignment to this mission. His behaviour of late has been… troubling." 

"How so?"

"It is Vulcan tradition to betroth couples as children, I was so bonded. When this mission first started I requested a postponement of the marriage contingent on my completion of my assignment aboard Enterprise. His parents issued an ultimatum that I refused to honour, and my bond was broken. Skon has been… persistent in his attentions on this point. His family does not believe in the tradition as mine did. I do not understand his actions…." 

Her voice trailed off at the end of this speech and Hoshi could tell that she was no longer really speaking to her but more thinking out loud. The young Vulcan's brow furrowed, "I do not understand the male of the species." 

"As soon as you do give me a call, I don't believe anyone has ever figured that out." Hoshi joked and smiled.

 "Well from a perfectly emotional and human standpoint what, what's his name, Skon? What he's doing is not unusual, most males in our society are not betrothed as children, they try to find compatible mates as adults. Some more successfully than others." 

"I realise this, it's just…" she stopped sharply, and Hoshi realised why, T'Pol had been about to openly disclose her burgeoning relationship with Jonathan Archer. 

"It's just the Captain, right?" Hoshi grinned at the sudden, very blank expression that hooded immediately over T'Pol's features. "You've already 'bonded' with a guy here." 

"A relationship with a Human would be fraught with difficulty." T'Pol said non-committably, "The individual who attempted this would be, not welcome in most Vulcan society" 

"Are you welcome in most Vulcan society to begin with?" Hoshi asked quietly. 

Her first language, her first 'other' language had been Vulcan. She'd delved deeply into the alien tongue, the history, the culture of the people who'd been so instrumental in the elevation of Humanity from the sinkhole to which they'd tumbled after the third world war. Hoshi knew Vulcans better than most humans, and she also knew that T'Pol's insistence on remaining on Enterprise was not looked upon with favour by many in Vulcan society.

"Not particularly."   

"Than why would it concern you?"

"Skon is the head of a powerful House. An alliance with his family would be a great honour. I would be able to return to my home with… dignity" 

"Instead of in disgrace," Hoshi acknowledged the logic in T'Pol's analysis, "But you don't like him"

"He is a very intelligent, extremely considerate man. He is good company and I am very familiar with his immediate family and acquaintances." 

"But you don't like him" 

"That is irrelevant; Vulcan's do not bond on the basis of whom they 'like'," 

"Right" Hoshi had to grin at her companions wilful deceit, "You're just here because you like living in cold, damp, primitive conditions with people who smell funny and behave in a manner you were brought up to abhor."  

"In essence" 

"I don't believe you"

"You don't have to" 

"Then what are you planning on doing?" Hoshi demanded, "Telling Jon 'it's been fun, call me sometime?'" 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"It might not be apparent to you, but Humans not only admit to having emotions, they feel and express them as well. No matter what you decide you have a responsibility to Jon to conclude what you have begun. You'll only hurt him if you don't" 

"Believe me Ensign I'm quite aware of Human emotion." 

"Then I suggest you take that into account before you 'logic' away your bond to him, a relationship isn't just one sided, he's as equal a partner in this as you are. He's entitled to an explanation if nothing else." 

"I've made no decision" T'Pol observed. 

"Really?" Hoshi asked, "Sounded to me like you already had" 

T'Pol made no response. Hoshi drained the last of her tea and got up to leave. As she walked across the mess hall, T'Pol said something that surprised her. 

"Thank you" 

Hoshi turned, and tilted her head to one side, "For what?" 

"For being a friend" 

Hoshi smiled, a real broad grin, "Anytime"

The Sub-Commander just nodded and turned back to her pie. Hoshi was left again to marvel at the intricacies of Vulcan-Human relations. Who'd a thunk?   

When the doors to the Captain's suite slid open, Porthos lifted his head in instant alertness. When he saw it was just T'Pol he laid it down on the edge of the doggie pillow. Then he lifted it again and made the effort to trot over and look at her expectantly. Her late night visits were always accompanied by an interesting morsel to keep him placated. 

She gave him the crust of her pie, setting it gently down on the floor at his feet. He slurped it up greedily, and then looked at her imploringly for more. She did not oblige. 

He leapt up, waiting for her to sit in her accustomed spot, she didn't and he whimpered a little. She looked at him, with a questioning gaze. When she finally did sit down he climbed up onto her lap and settled himself in the valley between her upturned knees.

She began to speak, a noise that he didn't really understand. It wasn't the way others on the ship talked to him, the sounds were different, more sibilant and less detached. The words seemed to flow together very lyrically. 

Jon noticed them too; Porthos could hear the slight difference in the cadence of his breathing that bespoke the stirrings of awareness. T'Pol was absently stroking his fur when Jon made his first comment. 

"Can't sleep?"

She was startled, he could feel the muscle tense and relax slightly under his belly. Porthos lifted his head again at the recognition of his master's voice. 

"Apparently not." Her voice held no accent in English, or rather, or rather she spoke with human accent.  

"You wanna talk about it?" He was sleepy, but relatively alert.

"About what?" the eyebrow arched, Jon grinned, he was getting the hang of conversing with a Vulcan.  

"Whatever's been bothering you since the Vulcan ship docked with us?"

"I don't feel like discussing it" Her expression was closed, and unlike with a Human woman, he understood that if something needed to be said, she'd go ahead and say it. No prevarication or hesitation. Nothing emotional to get in the way.

"Alright," he held out the corner of the blanket, "Cold?" 

"Only slightly," He grinned at her response and got out of the warm blankets. He lifted Porthos, protesting slightly off of the Vulcan's lap and tugged her to her feet. 

"No reason to be, besides you need sleep."

"This I cannot achieve in my own quarters?"

"Nope" he knelt down and tugged off her boots and socks, to her questioning 'look'. "Bedtime for Vulcans" 

"Indeed" she slid back into the pre-warmed blankets and acknowledged the logic of sleeping in comfort. Warmth and relaxation would certainly do her benefit in the upcoming negotiations, a relaxed body led to a clear and focused mind. 

Porthos hopped back up onto the bed after Jon settled himself beside T'Pol. He was shushed away by male hands, but silently encouraged by the 'other half'. 

Deciding that he liked sleeping on the bed, it was certainly much warmer and more comfortable than his pillow, the subservient quadruped snuggled closer to the Vulcan. After all, hers was the higher body temperature of the two. A satisfactory scratching of the ears was initiated. 

Life was good.  


	19. Chapter 19

I know this is so late as to be inexcusable, but the holidays/end-of-year caught up to me with a vengeance, I hopped a jetplane for a couple of weeks of absolutely nothing and now, hopefully, I can get things back on track. Thanks to everyone who takes the time and consideration to review, it makes my projects worth writing. 

Chapter Nineteen

T'Pol had happy hands. 

This was something Jonathan had noticed over the course of the past few weeks. It was difficult not to notice, especially since every time she did touch him a skitter of telepathic feeling went up his spine. It wasn't much; it just left him feeling a little off kilter.

It wasn't until they began spending almost every minute working together that he noticed. Riding herd of a group aliens that were about to kill each other wasn't a picnic. Most of them couldn't talk to each other without some kind of mediator. She was Vulcan, he was human, and the combination of the two was a surprisingly effective mixture of diplomacy and empathy. The carrot and the stick. It was interesting; working closely with T'Pol had sensitized certain portions of his anatomy to her 'explorations'. 

He wasn't expecting it. Not from a Vulcan. But the gentle taps and strokes had been going on for a few weeks now, but he'd never really had anything to call her on. He sure as hell did now. He was surprised that in the midst of tense and dangerous negotiations she was feeling him up in the conference room, it was subtle, boy oh boy was it subtle, but it sent jitters up Jon's spine every time he thought of it. 

The Andorians were belligerent and un-cooperative. The Kretassians were uncommunicative and stubborn. Thank god the Rigellians were relatively nice, but still… Ambassador V'Lar was a surprising source of wisdom and advice. She let T'Pol and Jon have the lion's share of the 'busy' work: the socializing, the refereeing, she saved her moments for the quiet, but final word. Well, that and the near constant bickering with the Andorians.  

Something needed to be done, and soon, the Orions had been running unfettered though the Betazed sector for far too long, it was beyond the confines of Vulcan space, or even the regular areas of Vulcan patrol. The Betazeds weren't able to defend themselves over such a large expanse, it bordered on the territory of several species, not all of them friendly, with themselves or anyone else. 

A coalition. They needed a coalition, something that covered sectors of space cohesively, a group of people that could work together. 

Just not these people.

Sadly these were the people that he was stuck with, so as his mother was wont to say, "If life gives you lemons….make lemonade." His mother, however, didn't have to deal with Ambassador Soval, Ambassador Trennek, from Andoria Prime, The entire Kretassian 'foreign committee', and a half dozen members of the various Noble families of Betazed.  Not to mention the gracious condescension of the Vulcan crew, those who'd seen his little 'oopsie' in the low oxygen environment. They'd adjusted the gravity and the oxygen content to a more comfortable level now, the Vulcan ships were the only ones with the facilities to hold all of the various species. 

This meant he was also stuck in the same room as Skon for long periods of time. It was not peculiar for him, not liking a Vulcan, but the reason was eerie. He had a rival. Skon was a friend of T'Pol's family, of her colleagues and classmates; they'd known each other for longer than he'd probably been alive. He was jealous. Not of Skon, but of what Skon could offer her: a place among her people. It was something he could never give. An obstacle he had to overcome. 

"Captain?" 

"Uh…" he shook himself out of a slight reverie, reaching for the comm. "Yeah, I'm here" 

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I've got Ambassador V'Lar on sub-space. She wanted a word."         

"Uh, sure, route it to here" he turned in his chair and made sure his collar was straight and his shirt was tucked. It never hurt, "What can I do for you Ambassador? "

"Captain Archer" she bowed her head in the peculiar little Vulcan gesture, "I hope I'm not disturbing you?" 

"No, not at all," he smiled, "Is there a problem?"

"Hardly," she gave him the half expression that usually indicated satisfaction, "I was just wondering if you and the Sub-Commander would accept an invitation to my private mess for this evening? To mark the completion of the first round of negotiations." 

"I'd be honoured, I can't answer for T'Pol but I'm sure she'd be… delighted" 

"Speaking of the Sub-Commander," a slight chill of foreboding trickled down his spine, "I would have expected her to be a little more eager to mingle with the crew of the Sha'Ran. There are several people here that came on this mission that she's not met in a long time. Is she feeling alright?" 

"As far as I know," he responded, almost happy that she wasn't eager to mix with the Vulcan crew, "We've been very busy here, she might just be tired." 

"I suppose so" the Ambassador looked, if not happy, and then satisfied with the explanation. "Seventeen hundred Captain?" 

"I'll be there" 

And he was, with T'Pol in tow. She insisted on 'inspecting' his attire to make sure it was formal enough for an evening with the Ambassador, evidencing that her 'hero-worship' wasn't dead yet. Apparently his black collared shirt and slacks passed well enough for her, he'd received a neat stroke down the back just as they crossed the threshold of the Vulcan ship. 

"This way, sir, ma'am" 

They were escorted to a private dining room, like Jon's own Captain's mess, Skon was there too, Jon's teeth ground together as he bowed only to T'Pol and motioned for her to sit in the chair next to him. Jon precluded that by pulling out the seat across from the Ambassador and directly next to the 'guest chair'. 

Seemingly oblivious to the power play in front of her the Ambassador welcomed them both warmly, "I must say Captain your hand at the negotiating table is quite firm for one so young. I think Enterprise handled today's event rather well, don't you agree?"

"I thought it went rather well," he was actually pleased at the Ambassador's compliment. It wasn't often one got that from a Vulcan, especially from one in her position. Skon made the barest of acknowledgements and might have glared over the rim of his water goblet, or it could have been a passing shadow. 

"We have had remarkable experience with First Contact and with soothing violent responses from many species." T'Pol was as neutral as she'd ever been, trying for the purest bland she could produce. 

"Tell me Captain Archer, how do first contacts between you and another species usually go?" V'Lar sounded genuinely interested, but Jon's response was cut off, almost rudely by Skon. 

"Considering much of the violent response that humanity gathers is by it's ignorance of interstellar diplomacy, I don't know if Captain Archer's experience is very representative" It was either just Jon, but he thought that Skon's voice had defiantly dropped a little and gotten hostile.

The conversation went on like this for some time, V'Lar making some kind of remark enquiring about his command or his abilities, T'Pol commenting neutrally and letting Skon scrap at him. If he doubted, for a moment, V'Lar's knowledge of the pissing war between him and Skon, he doubted it no longer. She knew, and Skon was playing to it. The only problem was Jon couldn't tell if he was winning or losing. 

Dinner was bland. Vulcan food. Jon noticed that T'Pol tucked in to it though, putting away much more than she usually did. It made him twist a little inside, the things she was sacrificing to be on his vessel. 

For example: there was no extraneous noise on a Vulcan ship. It ran as silent as a submarine in enemy water. On Enterprise Jon could always hear the hum and bustle; it calmed him, knowing everything was running. To the Vulcan ears it must be a loud unceasing hum of noise. 

Sitting next to her, he could feel the tension running off of T'Pol like water. She was back in a Vulcan environment, it was homelike, no noise, no humidity, no voices raised in anger or joy. Just calm, collected, quiet. Familiar food, prepared by someone who knew what they were doing.  

  The presence of the Ambassador, did not however, preclude the appearance of the happy hands. Jon was right handed; therefore he reached for things with his right hand. Now he didn't know if Vulcans had silly little distinctions like 'right' or 'left' handedness, but he did know that her fingers bumped into his far more than would ordinarily occur. That her ankle hooked around his calf for most of the conversation was purely incidental, he was sure. 

The meal ended uneventfully, the Ambassador was a surprisingly congenial dinner companion, when she wasn't being 'official'. He and Skon had settled into sniping at each other in a decidedly Vulcan fashion. It was T'Pol who now seemed a little off kilter, as V'Lar began to wish them a pleasant evening; she stood and said something firmly in Vulcan. 

Skon looked a little taken aback, but V'Lar raised a conciliatory hand. She motioned for him and Skon to leave. Apparently this was a private conversation. The young Vulcan escorted him to the airlock with the evident attitude that he'd rather there wasn't a ship on the other side.   

Jon wondered a little, it had been a very odd meal. It seemed as though V'Lar had been giving him some kind of test. She'd been very polite, even by human standards, but all of her questions were pointed. What was your diplomatic training? You were, I believe a test pilot before your Captaincy? Where were you trained? Who were your colleagues? 

She'd practically asked for a biography. Except his personal life, she didn't even mention that the renowned Henry Archer was his father, let alone where he was born or did he have any siblings.  He'd never witnessed Vulcan behaviour like that before. 

He undressed and set down to some paperwork, but even that was running low. They'd been tracking Orion's and in Orion held space for quite some time now, the backlog of work was nearly exhausted. He'd be glad when they'd finally get out doing some more exploring instead of all this diplomatic crud.  

He must have been much more engrossed in the data reports than usual because he was startled at the chime of the door. He was barefoot, but otherwise presentable, and called out for the person to enter. 

"T'Pol" he was surprised, she rarely used the door chime anymore, usually only when she was being 'official'. 

"Jonathan" her body language was alarmingly closed, she was stiff and almost formal, despite the familiar use of his first name. 

"Is there something wrong?" he asked softly, standing, but not crossing over to touch her, it was hard to gauge when she'd accept a caress or other contact or when she simply didn't want to be touched.  

"In a manner of speaking," T'Pol sat and Porthos, who had been watching her with eagle beagle eyes, hopped onto her lap. She didn't seem to notice the intrusion, but stroked his fur gently.

"You care to elaborate?" 

"I suppose I must" she crossed her legs under the beagle, and fiddled with his ears, "Vulcans do not 'marry' as is human custom, we 'bond'." 

"There's a difference?" 

"Indeed" 

"Alright…." He sat on the bed, folding his legs up under him, and then switched to stretching them out in front of him. He wasn't nearly as limber as she, his feet fell asleep when he crossed them.

"The bond is telepathic; we are joined into one mind at the ceremony." 

"Literally?"

"Quite" 

"Wow" 

"Indeed" the eyebrow marched upwards and he felt a little reassured, she wasn't condescending, just being Vulcan. 

"Once bonded, one of the more unusual side effects is the ability to sense the same bond in others." 

"Some kind of telepathic wedding ring?"

"An interesting analogy, and somewhat accurate." T'Pol this time, failed to  meet his eyes, "Ambassador V'Lar has survived her bondmate for nearly twenty years, however she still has this… sensitivity" 

"So?"

"During this morning's round of negotiations, you were seated together, in that time she sensed something between you and I. A bond. A close bond. A very close bond." 

"A marriage bond" he said with soft finality. 

"How did you…?" 

"You're not the only one who researches," he made a general motion towards the computer banks; "I've been reading. The Collected Works of Surak, T'Plana'hath, a couple of others. When you touch me I can feel your thoughts, if I get upset you know about it, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that something's gone on." 

"V'Lar was trying to ascertain if you would be a proper bondmate tonight," T'Pol folded her arms across her chest, she looked embarrassed, no not embarrassed, unsure, "It's not truly her place, but… well, it's more her place now than my mothers." 

"I'm sorry," she'd told him before of her mother's 'displeasure' with T'Pol's abandoning of the family occupation. 

"It's not your responsibility" T'Pol's voice kept getting softer, "The Ambassador confronted me with her knowledge of our… link. She was surprisingly supportive."

"So that means I have her blessing?" Jon asked.    

"Blessing?"

"It's traditional for the man to ask permission of the family before he asks a woman to marry him." Jon grinned, in his nightstand, waiting for the right moment were the two bands he'd purchased on Betazed. When he snapped the small velvet box open her eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

"I…" for the first time in a long time, she was somewhat speechless. Jon pulled her unresistingly into an embrace. He rubbed circles on her back, she was so small in his arms, it was almost surprising, she didn't seem this small while she was talking. Five foot flat of pure, raw spunk. 

"By Vulcan custom I think we're pretty much married already, but… I don't know; it just feels more official like this." He took her chin softly and tilted her head up. 

Let's just say it was a while before they came up for air. 


End file.
